Read Online Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles by Margaret George - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Margaret George
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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The monks were already gathered; they must not see her!
They were seated all along the stone benches on each side of the glittering high altar, flanked by two tall candles. Their cowled heads were bowed, and the mumble of rosaries being recited surrounded them like the buzz of bees around a hive.
Ave Maria
Gratia plena
Dominus tecum:
Benedicta tu in mulieribus.. ..
She did not dare to move, hunched there in her stone recess that was cold and covered in a light film of condensation. Time seemed suspended, not to be passing at all. But then, gradually, she saw the five tall windows behind the high altar in the east begin to separate themselves from the night. At first they were barely noticeable, a smudge of opalescence in the dark; but slowly each hue in them began to glow and become more distinct, until at last there were garnet red and marigold yellow and sapphire blue and twilight violet and sea green, slender long panels of jewels forming exquisite pictures in the dawn.
The monks stirred, and there was a metallic clanking as the incense was lit in its censer. The rich, perfumed smoke rose in soft clouds around the altar and then the chanting began: the Office of Matins.
Te de-urn laude-mus.. ..
The deep, measured cadences rolled upward with the incense. The sun sent a first tiny ray through a purple spear of glass in the window. The Virgin Mary, in her niche near the high altar, seemed to glow as the first light caressed her alabaster face.
Mary nearly swooned with the beauty of it all, with the cold, with her excitement, with the forbidden ness of her own presence. She had been to mass at the Chapel Royal in Stirling Castle, but it was a lacklustre, daytime thing: this was magic, a door to another world, a world that overwhelmed her and drew her so powerfully that she felt she could vanish straightway into it.
The incandescent colours, the mystic smell, the deep, beckoning, otherworldly voices, and the glowing face of the Virgin swirled in her aroused soul. Clutching at the wall, she felt herself in the grip of an ecstasy, and, closing her eyes, she let herself be carried away.
So this is God, she thought, as she slid forward soundlessly, and gave herself up to Him.
The monks later discovered her sprawled out on the floor of the nave, near a side altar. She was so deeply asleep they feared she was unconscious; but as she was picked up, she opened her eyes and smiled, a beatific smile.
"Is it time for the next singing?" she asked, and the monks laughed, relieved.
"The Queen of Scots should perhaps become a nun, Your Highness," they said, in returning her to her mother. "Like the blessed Queen, Saint Margaret. She seems to have a vocation for it."
"She has a different destiny," replied Marie. The night's sleep had confirmed her resolution of the night before. "She must marry, and live in this world."
"It is dangerous to ignore a call from God," said Brother Thomas, in a seemingly playful manner. "God is a possessive lover, and He does not suffer rejection lightly. In fact, if He has marked you for His own, He does not suffer rejection at all."
"Perhaps at the end of her life, when her earthly duty is over," said Marie. She found this conversation annoying and pointless.
"God does not want our leavings, but our first fruits," persisted Brother Thomas. "However," he said with an irritating smugness, "he has been known to turn our leavings into a sacrifice of the highest order."
SEVEN
Inside the bowels of the French galley, it was stiflingly hot and reeked of unwashed human skin. The rowers had been at their oars for hours, and now that it was growing dark they knew their torture would soon be over for a little while. Only ten or twelve of them had been lashed today, for everyone had worked hard, and their master was kindhearted for an overseer.
"They've sighted the shoreline near Dumbarton," announced the master.
They were seated all along the stone benches on each side of the glittering high altar, flanked by two tall candles. Their cowled heads were bowed, and the mumble of rosaries being recited surrounded them like the buzz of bees around a hive.
Ave Maria
Gratia plena
Dominus tecum:
Benedicta tu in mulieribus.. ..
She did not dare to move, hunched there in her stone recess that was cold and covered in a light film of condensation. Time seemed suspended, not to be passing at all. But then, gradually, she saw the five tall windows behind the high altar in the east begin to separate themselves from the night. At first they were barely noticeable, a smudge of opalescence in the dark; but slowly each hue in them began to glow and become more distinct, until at last there were garnet red and marigold yellow and sapphire blue and twilight violet and sea green, slender long panels of jewels forming exquisite pictures in the dawn.
The monks stirred, and there was a metallic clanking as the incense was lit in its censer. The rich, perfumed smoke rose in soft clouds around the altar and then the chanting began: the Office of Matins.
Te de-urn laude-mus.. ..
The deep, measured cadences rolled upward with the incense. The sun sent a first tiny ray through a purple spear of glass in the window. The Virgin Mary, in her niche near the high altar, seemed to glow as the first light caressed her alabaster face.
Mary nearly swooned with the beauty of it all, with the cold, with her excitement, with the forbidden ness of her own presence. She had been to mass at the Chapel Royal in Stirling Castle, but it was a lacklustre, daytime thing: this was magic, a door to another world, a world that overwhelmed her and drew her so powerfully that she felt she could vanish straightway into it.
The incandescent colours, the mystic smell, the deep, beckoning, otherworldly voices, and the glowing face of the Virgin swirled in her aroused soul. Clutching at the wall, she felt herself in the grip of an ecstasy, and, closing her eyes, she let herself be carried away.
So this is God, she thought, as she slid forward soundlessly, and gave herself up to Him.
The monks later discovered her sprawled out on the floor of the nave, near a side altar. She was so deeply asleep they feared she was unconscious; but as she was picked up, she opened her eyes and smiled, a beatific smile.
"Is it time for the next singing?" she asked, and the monks laughed, relieved.
"The Queen of Scots should perhaps become a nun, Your Highness," they said, in returning her to her mother. "Like the blessed Queen, Saint Margaret. She seems to have a vocation for it."
"She has a different destiny," replied Marie. The night's sleep had confirmed her resolution of the night before. "She must marry, and live in this world."
"It is dangerous to ignore a call from God," said Brother Thomas, in a seemingly playful manner. "God is a possessive lover, and He does not suffer rejection lightly. In fact, if He has marked you for His own, He does not suffer rejection at all."
"Perhaps at the end of her life, when her earthly duty is over," said Marie. She found this conversation annoying and pointless.
"God does not want our leavings, but our first fruits," persisted Brother Thomas. "However," he said with an irritating smugness, "he has been known to turn our leavings into a sacrifice of the highest order."
SEVEN
Inside the bowels of the French galley, it was stiflingly hot and reeked of unwashed human skin. The rowers had been at their oars for hours, and now that it was growing dark they knew their torture would soon be over for a little while. Only ten or twelve of them had been lashed today, for everyone had worked hard, and their master was kindhearted for an overseer.
"They've sighted the shoreline near Dumbarton," announced the master.
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