Free The Memoirs of Mary Queen of Scots by Carolly Erickson Page B

exaggerated importance. I had no one to restrain me, or advise me wisely and impartially. My half-brother James cared more for the rights of the Protestant church—and for his own advancement—than for the rights of the crown. My shrewd grandmother (how I missed her!) was too far away to serve as my councilor. Jamie was preoccupied with hisfeud with Arran and in fact I expected any day to hear that the two of them had fought a duel.
    “How I hate that weak, conniving bastard!” Jamie spat, glowering as he paced restlessly in my small presence chamber at Holyrood. “He won’t even fight me! I sent him a challenge but he declined. He’s a poor swordsman, they say. He’s only good at wrecking other people’s castles. I ought to wreck one of his!”
    He stopped pacing and glared at me.
    “You know what his plan is, don’t you? He wants you to marry that daft son of his.”
    I shuddered. I knew only too well that young James Hamilton, Arran’s son, was an erratic, weak-minded man, completely unsuited to becoming the husband of the queen. And I wanted nothing to do with him.
    Feeling oppressed by the somber, angry men around me, the mournful singing of the Protestants who continued to serenade me night after night, the harangues of the reverend Knox and the schemes of Arran and the other Scots magnates, I obstinately followed my own path of pleasure.
    I played tennis with the servant boys—and sometimes won. I rode Bravane through the green countryside, uphill and down, even daring, at times, to ride like a man with one trousered leg on each side of the saddle. Men’s clothing served me well when I went in disguise along the narrow wynds of Edinburgh and up and down the hill paths that ringed the town. I danced, lustily and with abandon, to the music that was played in my chamber, the drums thumping and the lutes and pipes and sackbuts blending in raucous harmony in measure after measure. The more the Protestants sang, the more I danced, leaping and twirling with vigor as if to affirm life and joy in the face of their endless wailing.
    And I indulged my delight in beautiful, fashionable clothes, for I was then (if I do say so myself) coming into that span of years whena woman’s beauty is at its peak, and I was—everyone agreed on this—a very lovely woman.
    I ordered my dressmaker Mr. Skut to create for me dozens of gowns in shades of fiery red and russet velvet, golden amber and rich blue and green satin and taffeta, with costly trims of pearls and Hainault lace, gold and silver embroidery and wide ermine-cuffed sleeves. I sent to France for the newest styles in headdresses, some steepled, some heart-shaped, all sparkling with jewels and designed to flatter even the plainest face. My wardrobe trunks overflowed with gilded gloves and net stockings, thick sables and long ropes of pearls—all of which I wore, even on the meanest occasions, my colorful adornment in sharp contrast to the stark black robes of the devout.
    My extravagance was much talked of, and before long I had a visit from John Knox.
    “Forty gowns!” he said as he swept unceremoniously into my presence. “Nor four, but forty!”
    “Forty-two, to be exact,” I heard Margaret Carwood murmur as she folded some pairs of sleeves and laid them in a basket.
    “Waste! Luxury and waste! And how do you think to pay for it all, girl?”
    “I am not a girl, I am your queen. I feel certain the Scottish treasury will pay Mr. Skut’s bills.”
    “And where do you think you are then? In France? That rich land? Scotland is poor! Look around you! There is no wealth here!”
    I had noticed that there were no swarms of Italian moneylenders in Scotland, and I thought that significant. (It is no paradox that moneylenders gather where the landed rich are short of cash.) I had no idea how much was in the treasury, no one told me and I had not asked.
    Knox raved on, castigating me for putting rouge on my cheeks and marring my face by plucking my eyebrows and