Read Online Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles by Margaret George - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Margaret George
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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"Tomorrow we put in. Rest for a few days then back to France."
"Here we take on board the Queen?" muttered a tall, sinewy rower. His shoulders bore the fading marks of a not-so-recent lashing.
"Yes, and all her train," replied the master. "Some fifty or sixty young people and their preceptors."
"Bah!" said the rower. "So it is to come about, is it? The little Queen is to go to France, there to drink of that liquor that should remain with her all her lifetime, for a plague to this realm, and for her final destruction."
"What do you care, Knox?" said a fellow rower. "It means a rest for us, that's all it means. I should think you'd welcome it. Who's up on deck does it matter? We never see them."
"We can feel them," pronounced Knox. "Their presence pollutes the air!"
"Do you speak of the Queen in such terms, man?"
"The Queen is a child who is half French and now to be wholly indoctrinated with that unhealthy, twisted manner of thinking. No, she's not my Queen!"
He stretched his cramped arms. It had been over a year since he was captured by the French when St. Andrews Castle fell; he had been rowing in the galleys ever since. There had been the ship of Rouen, and even a fairly pleasant stint on the Loire River, although he had never been allowed up on deck to see the fabled chateaux. Now, for the past few months, he had been serving in the fleet of more than a hundred ships that the French King sent out to do a double duty: to land troops on the eastern coast of Scotland, at Leith, to man the garrisons and rout the English; and then to sail around the northern tip of Scotland what miserable sailing that had been, no galleys before had ever attempted such a voyage and land on the western coast of Scotland. There, at the stronghold of Dumbarton Castle, perched on its rocky heights above the Firth of Clyde, was the little Scots Queen, waiting to be conveyed to France.
John Knox had almost wept when he saw his native country from the tiny portholes of the rowing deck earlier on the voyage. The spires of St. Andrews had swum tantalizingly at a distance.
"I shall preach again there someday," he said solemnly.
"O' course you will," muttered the man next to him, a murderer and cutpurse whom Knox had attempted, with singular un success to convert to the True Gospel.
And now he could see the great boulder for so it looked from a distance of Dumbarton from out of the porthole frame. A tiny castle was visible, clinging to the top.
She's waiting up there, he thought. That misguided little child, steeped in the abominations of Popery. And next to be dipped, like Achilles in the River Styx, in the river of frivolity and falsehood that is France: to the ruin of her character and the misdirection of her education.
Scotland must not be served so. No, she must not, he thought.
The moment of parting had come. In all the excitement in the hasty French lessons, and the selection of Shetland ponies as gifts for the French royal children, in the clothes-fittings and farewell banquets five-year-old Mary had not realized that her mother would not be coming with her.
They had never before been separated. And now, with the wind whipping and snapping the pennants on the ships, with the waters of the Firth jumping in the sunlight, with the large number of lords and ladies assembled for the boarding, she suddenly felt sick. She clung to her mother.
"I cannot leave you," she said, her eyes filling with tears. "I cannot, I cannot!"
Marie de Guise, tears choking her own throat, begged the Virgin for the strength to hide her distress. "My dearest child, do not cry. I will follow as soon as I may," she said. "There is yet business to attend to here. When I have secured your kingdom, when I have made sure no one will ever take Scotland from you, my darling, then I will come to France."
"Will it be soon?"
"It depends how much of a fight the English put
"Here we take on board the Queen?" muttered a tall, sinewy rower. His shoulders bore the fading marks of a not-so-recent lashing.
"Yes, and all her train," replied the master. "Some fifty or sixty young people and their preceptors."
"Bah!" said the rower. "So it is to come about, is it? The little Queen is to go to France, there to drink of that liquor that should remain with her all her lifetime, for a plague to this realm, and for her final destruction."
"What do you care, Knox?" said a fellow rower. "It means a rest for us, that's all it means. I should think you'd welcome it. Who's up on deck does it matter? We never see them."
"We can feel them," pronounced Knox. "Their presence pollutes the air!"
"Do you speak of the Queen in such terms, man?"
"The Queen is a child who is half French and now to be wholly indoctrinated with that unhealthy, twisted manner of thinking. No, she's not my Queen!"
He stretched his cramped arms. It had been over a year since he was captured by the French when St. Andrews Castle fell; he had been rowing in the galleys ever since. There had been the ship of Rouen, and even a fairly pleasant stint on the Loire River, although he had never been allowed up on deck to see the fabled chateaux. Now, for the past few months, he had been serving in the fleet of more than a hundred ships that the French King sent out to do a double duty: to land troops on the eastern coast of Scotland, at Leith, to man the garrisons and rout the English; and then to sail around the northern tip of Scotland what miserable sailing that had been, no galleys before had ever attempted such a voyage and land on the western coast of Scotland. There, at the stronghold of Dumbarton Castle, perched on its rocky heights above the Firth of Clyde, was the little Scots Queen, waiting to be conveyed to France.
John Knox had almost wept when he saw his native country from the tiny portholes of the rowing deck earlier on the voyage. The spires of St. Andrews had swum tantalizingly at a distance.
"I shall preach again there someday," he said solemnly.
"O' course you will," muttered the man next to him, a murderer and cutpurse whom Knox had attempted, with singular un success to convert to the True Gospel.
And now he could see the great boulder for so it looked from a distance of Dumbarton from out of the porthole frame. A tiny castle was visible, clinging to the top.
She's waiting up there, he thought. That misguided little child, steeped in the abominations of Popery. And next to be dipped, like Achilles in the River Styx, in the river of frivolity and falsehood that is France: to the ruin of her character and the misdirection of her education.
Scotland must not be served so. No, she must not, he thought.
The moment of parting had come. In all the excitement in the hasty French lessons, and the selection of Shetland ponies as gifts for the French royal children, in the clothes-fittings and farewell banquets five-year-old Mary had not realized that her mother would not be coming with her.
They had never before been separated. And now, with the wind whipping and snapping the pennants on the ships, with the waters of the Firth jumping in the sunlight, with the large number of lords and ladies assembled for the boarding, she suddenly felt sick. She clung to her mother.
"I cannot leave you," she said, her eyes filling with tears. "I cannot, I cannot!"
Marie de Guise, tears choking her own throat, begged the Virgin for the strength to hide her distress. "My dearest child, do not cry. I will follow as soon as I may," she said. "There is yet business to attend to here. When I have secured your kingdom, when I have made sure no one will ever take Scotland from you, my darling, then I will come to France."
"Will it be soon?"
"It depends how much of a fight the English put
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