Read Online Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles by Margaret George - Free Book Online
Authors: Margaret George
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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island, hiding here with monks .. . but it is no game for me. It is deadly serious; what I decide today will determine whether my daughter has a future as Queen of Scotland, and whether Scotland itself has a future.
But I have decided: We will sell ourselves to France. Pity the Cardinal is not here to catch me saying "we" and "ourselves" am I become Scots at last? He would find that amusing. But if I must choose between England and France as our master, I will choose France; it is my native land; it is Catholic; it is congenial in all the ways that matter. My daughter is half French herself.. .. All will be well.
She picked up her wooden cup and drank deeply from it. The wine therein was French. All good things came from France, so it seemed.
France .. . Her face grew dreamy in remembering: the sweet autumn days in the family estate at Joinville; the mellow colour of the leaves still on the trees, with the low-hanging sun slanting through them; the spicy crackle when she stepped on the leaves which had already fallen; the fresh cider from the apple orchards; the mists in the early morning, rising in the woods during the wild boar hunts.. ..
The decision felt right, right all the way through. Odd how when a decision was absolutely right it presented itself so easily, and slipped through all the sluice-gates of the mind without impediment, whereas when it was not right, it was such a struggle to force it through, and then there were the nagging points where it caught, clung, and irritated, she thought.
The Queen Mother was suddenly debilitatingly tired. It is over, she thought. It is over, it is done. I have decided.
There remained only notifying France. But that would be simple.
I am ready for rest, she thought. I have earned it.
Mother and daughter were sharing the Prior's room in the upper floor of the west range of the cloister. Brother Thomas had brought out the finest bedding for his royal guests and laid down carpets during the afternoon; the Augustine Canons, less austere than some orders, had such items on hand for honourable visitors.
In the deepest part of the night, Mary came suddenly to a full waking that was preternatural. She lay stiff and still, holding her breath, and it seemed her mother was holding her breath, too, and that the whole room was a stone creature that had sense and feeling and was awake, but silent. Outside she could hear the trees on the island, their leaves rustling and sighing in the wind, not in a lonely way, but in a deeply comforting companionship.
Then she heard a stirring from somewhere, a soft swish: the sound of padded footsteps and the brushing of robes. It was the monks, going to their prayers.
Outside it was completely dark. She crept out of bed and went to the window. There was no moon, but the stars were bright. Against the dark, shiny surface of the lake she could see the moving leaves of the giant trees; and from within the church there glowed a faint light.
The monks were gathering for their prayers in the secret time of the night. She longed with all her heart to join them, and suddenly she knew this was why she had been called awake. Groping for her shoes, she pulled them on, and felt for her wool mantle. Taking care not to stumble, and feeling her way painfully slowly toward the door, she managed to edge past her mother's bed without awakening her. She lifted the wooden latch of the door very carefully, and pulled the door open. It did not creak; the monks kept everything in the most perfect working order, as part of their service to God.
It was cold on the stairway leading down to the ground, and Mary pulled her cloak tightly against her chest. She descended the steps and then ran across the wet grass to the side entrance of the church. Again, there was a perfect latch on the door and she was able to let herself into the church soundlessly. She crept into the recess of a side altar and hid there in the shadows.
But I have decided: We will sell ourselves to France. Pity the Cardinal is not here to catch me saying "we" and "ourselves" am I become Scots at last? He would find that amusing. But if I must choose between England and France as our master, I will choose France; it is my native land; it is Catholic; it is congenial in all the ways that matter. My daughter is half French herself.. .. All will be well.
She picked up her wooden cup and drank deeply from it. The wine therein was French. All good things came from France, so it seemed.
France .. . Her face grew dreamy in remembering: the sweet autumn days in the family estate at Joinville; the mellow colour of the leaves still on the trees, with the low-hanging sun slanting through them; the spicy crackle when she stepped on the leaves which had already fallen; the fresh cider from the apple orchards; the mists in the early morning, rising in the woods during the wild boar hunts.. ..
The decision felt right, right all the way through. Odd how when a decision was absolutely right it presented itself so easily, and slipped through all the sluice-gates of the mind without impediment, whereas when it was not right, it was such a struggle to force it through, and then there were the nagging points where it caught, clung, and irritated, she thought.
The Queen Mother was suddenly debilitatingly tired. It is over, she thought. It is over, it is done. I have decided.
There remained only notifying France. But that would be simple.
I am ready for rest, she thought. I have earned it.
Mother and daughter were sharing the Prior's room in the upper floor of the west range of the cloister. Brother Thomas had brought out the finest bedding for his royal guests and laid down carpets during the afternoon; the Augustine Canons, less austere than some orders, had such items on hand for honourable visitors.
In the deepest part of the night, Mary came suddenly to a full waking that was preternatural. She lay stiff and still, holding her breath, and it seemed her mother was holding her breath, too, and that the whole room was a stone creature that had sense and feeling and was awake, but silent. Outside she could hear the trees on the island, their leaves rustling and sighing in the wind, not in a lonely way, but in a deeply comforting companionship.
Then she heard a stirring from somewhere, a soft swish: the sound of padded footsteps and the brushing of robes. It was the monks, going to their prayers.
Outside it was completely dark. She crept out of bed and went to the window. There was no moon, but the stars were bright. Against the dark, shiny surface of the lake she could see the moving leaves of the giant trees; and from within the church there glowed a faint light.
The monks were gathering for their prayers in the secret time of the night. She longed with all her heart to join them, and suddenly she knew this was why she had been called awake. Groping for her shoes, she pulled them on, and felt for her wool mantle. Taking care not to stumble, and feeling her way painfully slowly toward the door, she managed to edge past her mother's bed without awakening her. She lifted the wooden latch of the door very carefully, and pulled the door open. It did not creak; the monks kept everything in the most perfect working order, as part of their service to God.
It was cold on the stairway leading down to the ground, and Mary pulled her cloak tightly against her chest. She descended the steps and then ran across the wet grass to the side entrance of the church. Again, there was a perfect latch on the door and she was able to let herself into the church soundlessly. She crept into the recess of a side altar and hid there in the shadows.
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