Free The Memoirs of Mary Queen of Scots by Carolly Erickson

traitor to Scotland—and to me.
    He was stout, round-faced, aging. When he bowed to me, his legs were a little unsteady under him. His face wore a bland smile of welcome. I stared at him stonily.
    “And this, Your Highness, is our famed man of God, the reverend John Knox.”
    Now there stepped forward a tough-looking, black-clad man whose eyes burned with a furious energy. He was not young, yet he had the feral force of youth, and I sensed no reverence from him, no acknowledgment of my authority, in fact. He did not bow, or even remove his hat.
    I smiled courteously and extended my hand. I expected my smile to melt the sharp disapproving frown chiseled on his features, but there was no change.
    “Jezebel!” he cried, ignoring my outstretched hand. “Puppet of the Roman Antichrist! Repent or face eternal torment!”
    Jamie, who was standing to my right and slightly behind me, let out a bellow of rage and lunged toward the preacher, but my half-brother James intervened.
    “Can we not restrain ourselves in the presence of the queen?” he said blandly, placing himself between Jamie and Knox.
    “I am not accustomed to being insulted by clergymen,” I said, standing my ground, “though I understand Protestants have few scruples in that regard.”
    “Judgment is mine, saith the Lord,” roared Knox.
    “I believe the verse reads, ‘Vengeance is mine,’ not judgment.”
    “Vengeance follows judgment, as night follows day,” Knox shouted. He stood squarely before me, as threatening a presence as I had ever encountered. He was not armed, he did not point a pistol at me or raise a sword. Yet there was a terrifying strength in him, or running through him, and I felt the menace of that strength. I felt my heart beating rapidly, my breath coming quickly. There was a low rumbling sound in my ears with every beat.
    “If I have sinned, sir, it is because all men are cursed with a sinful nature. ‘For all have sinned and come short of the glory of God,’ as the Bible says. As a good Catholic it is my custom to confess my sins often, and humbly. I do not need you to point them out.”
    “Aye, all men sin—and all women sin twice as often, and twice as wickedly. It is an abomination for such wicked sinners to rule over men!”
    “I am well aware of your vitriolic book on that subject. In it I believe you vilify my late mother, who was as good a woman as God ever made.”
    “That’s not saying much,” I heard the preacher mutter.
    “I caution you, Mr. Knox. Do not speak ill of my mother in my presence, or you will regret it.”
    My mother had written to me about the book preacher Knox had written, a book in which he denounced what he called “the monstrous rule of women,” and criticized several queens and regents, including my cousin Queen Elizabeth and my mother-in-law Queen Catherine.
    The sky had darkened, a dense black storm cloud was approachingthe harbor. Once again my brother James intervened, suggesting that we make our way to the royal palace of Holyrood before it began to rain.
    Horses were brought and we started off, though we hadn’t gone far before our progress was halted by a commotion in the street.
    Hundreds of people were gathering to watch what appeared to be a procession making its way down a dirty road whose gutters stank with sewage. I am tall, I can see over the heads of others—even other mounted horsemen. What I saw, moving along that street at a marching pace, was a boy—he could not have been older than my brother-in-law King Charles in France—dressed in the highland blanket they call a plaid, and carrying a ghoulish trophy.
    It was a pair of legs.
    Bloody, severed legs.
    “Hear all people!” the boy was shouting, holding the legs high so that everyone could see them. “And hark all ye nations! These be the limbs of Red Colquhoun, who lay with the wife of the Great MacNeil! Let all men take warning!”
    “The MacNeil, the MacNeil.” The words were repeated, passed from spectator to