I HAD ARRIVED in Edinburgh on Tuesday, the nineteenth of August. For days after, I waited impatiently for the arrival of the transport ships. At last a messenger brought word from the lord high admiral that English vessels searching for pirates had detained one of our ships.
“Unfortunately, the ship has all of your majesty’s horses and mules on board,” the messenger reported.
“The queen of England has taken my horses prisoner?” I asked, too amazed to be angry.
“I cannot say for certain, madam. But Lord Bothwell promises that he will secure their release.”
“Then I suppose I shall be pleased to use Scottish mounts,” I said. “I understand that they do have fine horses here,” I added wryly, for many in my stable were from Scottish stock.
Days later, my horses, mules, and their equipage were reportedly making their way slowly from the headland where British ships had seized them. There was nothing to do but wait. Lord James did all he could to make me and my retinue as comfortable as possible.
On my first Sunday in Scotland I ordered Mass to be celebrated in the royal chapel. When word got out, an angry group of Protestants suddenly filled the forecourt, loudly condemning the “idolatry” The priest was in the sacristy preparing the bread and wine, and one of my servants crossed the forecourt with the candles to be used in the Mass. Several protesters seized him, wrested the candles from him, and trampled them in the dust.
I entered the chapel with the Four Maries. My brother, himself a Protestant but no supporter of such violence, had promised me that I would be allowed to hear Mass in my palace and now placed himself in the doorway He was a big man with a commanding presence, and he would not allow any of the ruffians to enter the chapel. Nevertheless, those of us kneeling inside could hear the shouted threats outside. The elderly priest trembled so violently he could scarcely lift the sacred host. The service proceeded without further incident, but I was determined that no such insult should be repeated. I issued a proclamation that no one was to be prevented from privately practicing his religion, and the penalty for disobeying this edict was death.
My proclamation served only to inflame John Knox. The very next Sunday, the fiery preacher shouted from his pulpit for hours on end that a single Mass said in the royal chapel or anywhere else was more to be feared than an army of ten thousand sent to destroy the realm.
I would have to confront John Knox, and soon.
***
Meanwhile, the provost of Edinburgh presented himself and informed me that he had undertaken to arrange an official welcome for me on the second of September. I would host a banquet at Edinburgh Castle, the fortress that was once the home of Scottish kings. Following this, I would make my formal entry into the city, an entrée royale along the High Street, from Edinburgh Castle at one end to Holyrood Palace at the other. The provost assured me that all was in readiness. I needed only to be present.
The first question was what I should wear for this grand event. I was officially in mourning for my husband and still wore the deuil blanc, but I realized that this was not the custom here and that the Scots did not understand why I went about in a long white veil. I decided on a black velvet gown enriched with gold braid and hundreds of tiny white pearls. The Four Maries, as my chief ladies in waiting, would be gowned in gray silk.
Somewhere at sea was a ship with my gilded carriage, but even if it appeared, it would be useless on the deeply rutted track that served as the main avenue through Edinburgh. Since my horses and mules had finally arrived from their English imprisonment, I mounted my favorite palfrey trapped to the ground in shimmering satin brocade.
We left Holyrood at midmorning on the appointed day. Surrounded by my leading noblemen, whom I was just getting to know, I rode in a stately procession up the hill to Edinburgh Castle. The rugged fortress commanded the highest ground above the city, which lay huddled in its overbearing shadow. Smoking torches lit the blackened walls of the gloomy great hall, even at midday. A fire had been laid in the huge stone fireplace, and by the time my banquet was served, crackling flames had taken off the chill.
“Serve the richest sauces and the daintiest pastries you can conjure,” I had instructed my French cooks. “My guests must be deeply impressed but not entirely overwhelmed.” I wanted to make clear to the noblemen and local officials, who for years had been accustomed to acting independently, that I was their queen and must be recognized as the monarch and ruler.
It was not easy for my cooks to find the ingredients they wanted, but the dinner was, I felt, a great success. When the meal ended, we descended Castle Hill as the great guns of the castle boomed with such force that the ground shook beneath my feet.
The local townsfolk had gone to considerable effort to make a fine impression on me as well. Archways and platforms had been built along the High Street and pageants were performed. At each stop I made, singers and actors of all ages took part in a presentation meant to welcome their queen and to make sure I understood that this was no longer a Catholic country but a Protestant one in which the Mass was despised as an idolatrous act. The first gift presented to me was a Bible and a psalter. I recognized that I was being pressured to accept the Protestant faith, and this deeply displeased me, though I chose not to show it.
My procession passed through Lawnmarket, the neighborhood immediately below the castle, and then moved on to the High Kirk of St. Giles. The crowds there were well behaved and genuinely welcoming, but when we reached the High Cross, it became evident that the fountain was flowing with wine instead of water. The revelers were quite drunk. I signaled that we should move on. As we rode by John Knox’s house, I imagined him fulminating at one of the windows above. We passed through Netherbow Port with its turrets in the ancient walls and then entered Canongate. Holyrood Palace lay only a short distance beyond. I was relieved that it was nearly over. I felt I had made the impression I desired on the townspeople and had managed to turn aside their mindless hatred of the Catholic faith.
Two days later, at my invitation, John Knox and I came face to face.
***
I knew about Knox’s venomous sermons condemning me, and I was well acquainted with his pamphlet The First Blast of the Trumpet. Lord Bothwell and I had thoroughly discussed the major points of it; namely, that women were not fit to rule. The preacher found us weak, frail, feeble, and foolish creatures who were “repugnant to God,” in his words. He believed in violence and the right of subjects to remove by force a ruler who displeased them. The French had a law that prevented a woman from ruling in her own right. Apparently Scotland had John Knox.
This would be a very interesting interview.
I disliked the man on sight and could discern neither grace nor charm in him. He was many years my senior and puffed up with pridefulness. The churlishness in his manner of speaking to me was irritating, and I found him outrageous in his insistence that I could be forcibly removed from the throne because I did not worship God in a manner he approved of.
“Is that what you intend, sir?” I demanded. “That I be removed from the throne for my religious beliefs and because I am a woman?”
“It is an act of obedience, madam, to forcibly remove and imprison a ruler who is disobedient to the will of God and keep that ruler confined there until the ruler comes to his senses.”
I could scarcely believe what I heard. Never before had I been spoken to in such a way. But then, never before had I been in a position of ruling. I had held the title of queen of Scots since a few days after my birth, but for nearly eighteen years I had not had an opportunity to exercise the power that was rightfully mine. Now I intended to use it. Knox’s challenge to that power astonished me.
When I found my voice, I said, “I see that you believe my subjects should obey you, rather than me, and follow their own wishes rather than my commands. In the end, then, I am subject to them and to you rather than they and you being subject to me.”
“It is as you say, madam,” he acknowledged with a bow and a barely concealed sneer.
“Then you, sir, are dismissed!”
I could not claim any sort of victory over the rude Protestant preacher, but neither could he in all conscience declare himself the winner. Once I was alone, I gave way to tears of frustration and fury, for I had no idea how to deal with a man who held so much savagery and hatred for me in his heart.