Free Mary Stuart by Stefan Zweig

feeling was one of constraint and perplexity mingled with gloomy forebodings.
    Meanwhile, her half-brother, Lord James Stuart (better known to history by his later title, the Earl of Moray, or as the Regent Moray in subsequent years), had been informed of Mary’s arrival, and he in company with some of his fellow noblemen rode with all haste to Leith in order to provide a worthy escort to accompany her on her entry into Edinburgh. But the cavalcade did not cut much of a figure. Under the very transparent pretext of a search for pirates, the English had waylaid one of Mary’s ships. This happened to be the one conveying the favourite palfrey that she used on state occasions, together with the whole of the royal stud. Since the Queen rode well, she would not have been loath to display her equestrian skill to the crowds assembled to see her pass. But being deprived of her own mount, she had to ride into her kingdom sitting on the best horse the town of Leith could provide. A sorry nag, indeed, but serviceable. The mortification was no small thing for a girl of eighteen to face. Her suite fared worse, having to be content with what the stables and stalls of the neighbouring countryside could produce. Again tears suffused Mary’s eyes, tears of wounded pride and regret, for suddenly there was borne in on her the magnitude of her loss the day her husband, Francis II, was taken from her. Also she realised that to be Queen of Scotland was a poor, mean thing when compared with the glory of being Queen of France. Her national pride was piqued at having to cut so wretched a figure before the French gentlemen who accompanied her, and she felt personally affronted at having to present herself for the first time to her new subjects in so pitiable a plight. Instead, therefore, of making a “ joyeuse entrée ” through the main streets of Edinburgh, Mary decided to stop at Holyrood, which was outside the city walls. Her father had built this palace; its crenellated battlements dominated the landscape, dark and defiant; at first sight it created a formidable impression, with its menacing towers, its clear-cut lines, its square-shaped majesty. But how chill, empty and dismal must it have appeared to a child who had lived amid the voluptuous refinement of the French Renaissance. Here were no Gobelins to cheer and refresh the eyes, no chandeliers reflecting their lustrous illumination in Italian mirrors from wall to wall, no costly hangings, no sheen of gold and silver. Many years had gone by since the place had been used; no laughter re-echoed from its forlorn walls, no kingly hand had cared for or renovated the building since her father’s death. Poverty, the age-long curse of her kingdom, stared down at her from every nook.
    But, night though it was, the inhabitants of Edinburgh had no sooner learnt that their Queen had come than they issued from their houses, determined to give her a suitable welcome. It is not to be wondered at that this welcome seemed uncouth and boorish to Mary and her entourage, used as they were to French brilliancy and polish. Edinburgh’s townsfolk had no festive attire to grace the ceremony, nor did they know how to set up triumphal arches in honour of their young Queen. Here were no “ musiciens de la cour ” to enchant the ears of Ronsard’s pupil with sweet madrigals and smoothly flowing canzoni. They could only follow the traditional customs such occasions demanded. The country was rich in wood, so what more natural than to construct huge bonfires in the public squares, and by their glare change night into day? They gathered beneath her window and serenaded her with the wild skirling of bagpipes and other outlandish instruments, a sound they called music, but which to her trained ears was nothing but an ugly noise. In addition they raised their rough, manly voices in song; and since they were forbidden by their Calvinistic pastors to sing profane melodies, they filled the air with the lilt of psalms and