clear of the harbour and the wind rose a little, the crew began to hoist the sails. Standing in the stern, close to the rudder, and leaning with both arms on the taffrail, Queen Mary wept as she looked at the harbour and the country from which she was departing. There she remained, again and again mournfully repeating: âFarewell, France,â until night fell. Her companions urged her to retire to her cabin and rest, but she refused, so a couch was improvised for her on the poop. Before lying down she told the pilot to awaken her at dawn if the coast of France were still visible. He was not to be afraid, even if he had to shout at her. Fortune favoured her wishes. Since the wind had dropped, it was necessary to have recourse to the oars, and the galleon made little progress. At daybreak France was still in the offing. Directly the pilot spoke to her, she rose and continued to gaze at the coasts so long as they were in sight, again and again repeating plaintively: âFarewell, France! Farewell, France! I fear I shall never see you more.â
Chapter Four
Return to Scotland (August 1561)
(August 1561)
A FOG, THICKER THAN IS USUAL in summer even in a northerly clime, shrouded sea and land when, on 19th August 1561, Mary stepped out of the boat which put her ashore at Leith. What a contrast was this arrival in Scotland with the magnificent send-off she had been accorded when bidding adieu to la douce France ! Then she had been escorted by the bravest and noblest gentlemen of the land; princes and counts, poets and musicians, had graced her passage along the roads and at the port, coining courtly phrases and composing rapturous songs in her honour. In Scotland, no one was expecting her, and it was not until she was handed out of the boat and stepped along on firm ground that a few commoners gathered to gape at the dainty apparition. A fisherman or two in their rough working clothes, a handful of loitering soldiers, some shopkeepers and peasants who had come to sell their sheep in the town looked at her and her suite shyly rather than with enthusiasm. They seemed to be asking themselves who these fine folk could be with their sumptuous clothing and display of jewels. Strangers gazed into the eyes of strangers. A rude welcome, hard and austere as are the souls of these northern people. From the first hour of her landing, Mary Stuart was made to see the appalling poverty of her native country, to realise that during the few days of her voyage she had travelled backwards in history at least one hundred years, that she had left behind her a great civilisation, rich and luxurious, wasteful and sensuous, had exchanged the refined and open-handed culture of France for something narrow, dark, and fraught with tragedy. A dozen times and more, the town had been ravaged and plundered by the English, and by Scottish rebels, so that it could boast of no palace or baronial hall wherein Mary might be received with a dignity worthy of her rank. This night, therefore, she was put up in a burgher’s house; simple quarters it is true, but at least the Queen of Scotland had a roof over her head.
First impressions make a distinctive mark on the mind; they are stamped in deeply, and much of subsequent happenings depends upon whether they are good or bad. Perhaps Mary herself scarcely understood what moved her so profoundly when, after an absence of thirteen years, she returned to her kingdom as a stranger. Could it be homesickness, an unconscious longing for a warm, sweet existence which had taught her to love the French soil? Was it perhaps the shadow cast upon her high spirits by the grey skies of an unknown land? May it not have been a premonition of coming disaster? Whatever the emotion was, Brantôme tells us that hardly did she find herself alone in the room allotted her when she burst into tears. It was not like William the Conqueror, strong in the consciousness of his power, that this poor girl set foot on British earth. Her
Chapter Four
Return to Scotland (August 1561)
(August 1561)
A FOG, THICKER THAN IS USUAL in summer even in a northerly clime, shrouded sea and land when, on 19th August 1561, Mary stepped out of the boat which put her ashore at Leith. What a contrast was this arrival in Scotland with the magnificent send-off she had been accorded when bidding adieu to la douce France ! Then she had been escorted by the bravest and noblest gentlemen of the land; princes and counts, poets and musicians, had graced her passage along the roads and at the port, coining courtly phrases and composing rapturous songs in her honour. In Scotland, no one was expecting her, and it was not until she was handed out of the boat and stepped along on firm ground that a few commoners gathered to gape at the dainty apparition. A fisherman or two in their rough working clothes, a handful of loitering soldiers, some shopkeepers and peasants who had come to sell their sheep in the town looked at her and her suite shyly rather than with enthusiasm. They seemed to be asking themselves who these fine folk could be with their sumptuous clothing and display of jewels. Strangers gazed into the eyes of strangers. A rude welcome, hard and austere as are the souls of these northern people. From the first hour of her landing, Mary Stuart was made to see the appalling poverty of her native country, to realise that during the few days of her voyage she had travelled backwards in history at least one hundred years, that she had left behind her a great civilisation, rich and luxurious, wasteful and sensuous, had exchanged the refined and open-handed culture of France for something narrow, dark, and fraught with tragedy. A dozen times and more, the town had been ravaged and plundered by the English, and by Scottish rebels, so that it could boast of no palace or baronial hall wherein Mary might be received with a dignity worthy of her rank. This night, therefore, she was put up in a burgher’s house; simple quarters it is true, but at least the Queen of Scotland had a roof over her head.
First impressions make a distinctive mark on the mind; they are stamped in deeply, and much of subsequent happenings depends upon whether they are good or bad. Perhaps Mary herself scarcely understood what moved her so profoundly when, after an absence of thirteen years, she returned to her kingdom as a stranger. Could it be homesickness, an unconscious longing for a warm, sweet existence which had taught her to love the French soil? Was it perhaps the shadow cast upon her high spirits by the grey skies of an unknown land? May it not have been a premonition of coming disaster? Whatever the emotion was, Brantôme tells us that hardly did she find herself alone in the room allotted her when she burst into tears. It was not like William the Conqueror, strong in the consciousness of his power, that this poor girl set foot on British earth. Her
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