Читать книгу The Queens and the Hive - Edith Sitwell - Страница 26

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In July 1559, the new Spanish Ambassador, Alvarez de Quadra, Bishop of Aquila, told his King, ‘Thomas Randolph has come in haste from France to say that the Dauphin, after having publicly assumed the royal arms of Scotland, is about to be proclaimed King of Scotland, England, and Ireland.’

The Queen of England, when she heard of it, said she would take such a husband as would make the King of France’s head ache; and that he little knew what a buffet she would give him!

It was with some difficulty that the Earl of Arran, next in succession to the Scottish throne, who was to be the means of administering the buffet, was smuggled into England from France, where he had been Captain of the Scottish Guard; but it was done, and the Queen of Scots burst into tears of rage when she heard of it—knowing well what that visit to England might portend.

The omniscient Bishop de Quadra told his King: ‘We shall soon hear more.... She would not have received him here with the certainty of giving mortal offence to France, if it were not a settled thing that the Earl was to be more than a guest. I have my spies about the Queen’s person; and I know every word that she says.’ It is not impossible that the Queen was aware of this, and made full use of it.

The new suitor was received by the Queen, in what was supposed to be secrecy, in the gardens of Hampton Court. ‘Divers conceits’ had not, as yet, troubled his mind; he had not, as yet, shown open signs of the madness that was soon to engulf him. But there must have been, even then, a certain strangeness about him. In any case, the Queen decided not to take him as a husband; and at the beginning of September 1559, he made his way, under an assumed name, to Scotland, where it was hoped he would cause the maximum of trouble.

•••••

Though the peace treaty between France and England had been signed, an unquenchable fire of hatred separated the two countries, since, by adding the title of Queen of England to that of Queen of Scotland and Dauphine of France, Mary Stuart had not only insulted the national pride of England, but had proclaimed her cousin Elizabeth a bastard.

Her hand, as she signed documents with these titles, was guided by that of her father-in-law, King Henri the Second. ... But greater influences than his were brought to bear upon her.

Throughout her childhood, and that part of her early youth that was spent in France, their lengthening shadows ever falling before her, as if cast by her, the sinister dark figures of her uncles the Duc de Guise and the Cardinal of Lorraine, moved beside her. All the actions and thoughts of this seeming somnambulist, this beautiful, doomed being, were guided by them.

If the events that followed are to be understood in the slightest degree, the scene must now be shifted to Scotland—a land of high romance, chivalry, bravery, and of such fiery imagination as that which caused the heart of Bruce to be sent to fight in the battle against the Saracens, and to visit the Holy Land,—that sent, also, the heart of the murdered James the First, that King of a giant’s strength and savagery, on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land,—that heart being brought back to its home in Scotland, from Rhodes, by a Knight of St. John.

Al was this land fulfild of fayerye.

It was in this strange and beautiful country of legends (such as that of an incestuous Princess of great beauty, the sister of James the Third, seduced by a lord out of revenge against the King, who had corrupted his wife)—in this land soaked by the blood spilt in the feuds between the great nobles, that Mary was born. And Shadow was her companion from the moment of her birth. So had Tragedy been her young father’s twin-brother, inseparable from him, his bedfellow.

John Knox, the Reformer, a great writer (capable of a grandeur of utterance, and, at other times, of a mean squalor) who was afterwards to be the scourge of that monarch’s daughter, wrote thus of the time preceding Mary’s birth and the death of her father, James the Fifth.

‘So far had that blinded and most vicious man, the Prince (most vicious, we shall call him, for he neither spared man’s wife, nor maiden, no more after his marriage than he did before)—so far ... had he given himself to obey the tyranny of those bloody beasts [the Bishops] that he had made a solemn vow, That none should be spared that was suspect of heresy, yea, although it were his own son.... And yet did not God cease to give to that blinded Prince documents [signs] that some sudden plague was to fall upon him, in case he did not repent his wicked life; and that his own mouth did confess. For after that Sir James Hamilton [for long a favourite of the King, then accused of treason in 1546] justly or unjustly, we dispute not, was beheaded ... this vision came unto him, as to his familiars himself did declare: The said Sir James appeared unto him having in his hands a drawn sword, by the which from the King he struck both his arms, saying to him these words, “Take that while [until] thou receive a final payment for all thy impiety”. This vision, with sorrowful countenance, he showed on the morrow, and shortly afterwards died his two sons, both within the space of twenty-four hours; yea, some say, within the space of six hours....’

(James the Fifth’s only legitimate sons, James and Arthur, died in 1541, Arthur eight days after his birth, James, who was about a year old, four weeks after his brother.)

‘How terrible a vision that said Prince saw lying in Linlithgow that night that Thomas Scott, Justice-Clerk, died in Edinburgh—[he had proceeded against men charged with heresy....] For, afraid that midnight or after, he cried for torches, and roused all that lay beside him in the Palace, and told them that Thomas Scott was dead; for he had been at him with a company of devils, and had said to him these words “O woe to the day that ever I knew thee or thy service, for, serving of thee against God, against his servants, and against justice, I am adjudged to everlasting torment”.

‘How terrible the voices the said Thomas Scott pronounced before his death, men of all estates heard; and some that yet live can witness: his voice was ever “Justo Dei judicio condemnatus sum”: that is, “I am condemned by God’s just judgment”. None of these forewarnings could either change or mollify the heart of the indurate, lecherous, and avaricious tyrant; but still does he proceed from impiety to impiety.’

But that heart, that pride, were to be overthrown.

It was decided to invade England. At Solway Moss, ‘fires were kindled and almost slaked on every side; Oliver, the great minion [Oliver Sinclair], thought time to show his glory, and so, incontinent, was displayed the King’s banner; Oliver upon spears was lifted up upon men’s shoulders, and there with sound of trumpet, was he proclaimed general lieutenant, and all men commanded to obey him as the King’s own person under all highest pains....

‘Great was the noise and confusion.... The day was near spent, and that was the cause of the greatest fear.... The soldiers cast from them their pikes, culverins, and other weapons fencible, the horsemen left their spears, and so, without judgment, all men fled.

‘The sea was filling, and the water made great stop; but the fear was such that happy was he that might get a taker. ... Such as passed the water, not well acquainted with the ground, fell into the Solway Moss.... Stout Oliver was without stroke taken, fleeing full manfully....

‘The certain knowledge ... coming to the King’s ears ... he was stricken with a sudden fear and astonishment, so that scarcely could he speak.... The night constrained him to remain where he was, and so yead [went] to bed; but rose without rest or quiet sleep. His continual complaint was “Oh, fled Oliver! Is Oliver tane? Oh, fled Oliver!” And these words in his melancholy, and as it were carried away in a trance, repeated he from time to time, to the very hour of his death. Upon the morn ... returned he to Edinburgh, and so did the Cardinal [James Beaton, Archbishop of St. Andrews] from Haddington. But the one being ashamed of the other, the bruit of their communication came not to public audience. The King made inventory of his poise [treasure], of all his jewels.... And thereafter, as ashamed to look any man in the face, secretly departed to Fife....’

And to his servants he said ‘ “Or [ere] Yule day ye shall be masterless, and the realm without a King....” And albeit there appeared unto him no signs of death, yet he constantly affirmed, “before such a day, I shall be dead”.

‘In the meantime was the Queen upon the point of her delivery in Linlithgow, who was delivered the eighth day of December, in the year of God 1542, of Marie, that then was born, and now does ring [reign] for a plague to this realm.’

Knox declares that when the King was told of the birth of his daughter, he cried ‘ “Adieu, fare well, it came with a lass, it will pass with a lass”,^* and turned his back to his lords and his face to the wall’.

But, though ‘after that he spake not many more words that were sensible ... ever he harped upon his old song “Fye, fled Oliver: Is Oliver tane? All is lost.” ’

Then the Cardinal came to him and said ‘ “Take order, Sir, with your realm: who shall rule during the minority of your daughter? Ye have known my service: what will ye have done? Shall there not be four Regents chosen? And shall not I be principal of them?” Whatsoever the King answered, documents were taken that so should be as my Lord Cardinal thought expedient. As many affirm, a dead man’s hand was made to subscribe a blank, that they might write above it what pleased them best.’

So, on the 14th of December 1542, six days after the birth of his daughter, died James the Fifth.

It was from the darkness of such a night that the dream-bright Mary was born.

•••••

According to Knox, when the Cardinal went straight from the King’s death-bed to the Queen, she said to him, ‘Welcome, my Lord. Is not the King dead?’

From which Knox deduced that the Cardinal was the Queen’s lover, and that between them they had poisoned the King.

•••••

The hatred between Scotland and England persisted.

On the 3rd of May 1544, a great fleet of ships was seen approaching towards the north.... ‘Upon the Saturday, before noon. Question was: What should they mean? Some said, “It is no doubt but that they are Englishmen, and we fear that they shall land.” ’

They did.

The Cardinal was present at the first fight, dressed in a ‘casacque de vellour jaulne fort découppé pleine de taffetas blanc avec listes d’or que flocquent par les descoupeures’; but he was said to be ‘the first man that fled ... a valiant champion....’^[1]

He was not to remain long in his power. After the burning of George Wishart, the Protestant, he was told that he was in danger; but ‘in Babylon, that is in his new blockhouse [the Castle of St. Andrews] he remained without all fear of death [saying], “Is not my Lord Governor [a member of the house of Hamilton, who, according to Knox, had the wicked ever blowing in his ears] mine? ... Have I not the Queen at my own devotion? ... Is not France my friend, and I friend to France? What danger should I fear?” ’

But that danger was real. At five in the morning, on the 29th of May 1546, murderers, breaking open the outer doors of that Babylon, and the doors of his bedchamber, put him to death with many wounds, and, after mutilating him, hung him by a pair of sheets over the wall by the arm and foot, ‘and bade the people see there their God’. He died unshriven of his sins, having spent the night before with his mistress.

His murderers, pious men, were much commended by Knox,—who wrote, also, ‘The death of this foresaid tyrant was dolorous to the priests, most dolorous to the Queen Dowager; for in him perished faithfulness to France, and the comfort to all gentlewomen, and especially to wanton widows’. One wanton widow, according to Knox, being the Queen Dowager.

Two years after this time, the baby Queen of Scotland, who was affianced to the Dauphin of France, sailed for her future husband’s country, arriving there on the 13th of August 1548. She was then aged five and a half years; but Knox wrote: ‘And so the Cardinal of Lorraine [her uncle] got her in his keeping, a morsel, [I] assure you, meet for his own mouth’.

•••••

Eleven years after the little Queen’s departure from Scotland, John Knox returned to his native country in 1559, after a chequered career.

This extraordinary mixture of greatness, pettiness, appalling spiritual arrogance, spiritual bravery, and spiritual courage (this, however, deserted him entirely when ‘mischievous Mary’—as he called Queen Mary Tudor—came to the throne of England), honesty and self-deception (black could be transformed to white at a moment’s notice when this was convenient) regarded himself, and was regarded by others, as a Man of God. He was certainly not one who would say, with Oliver Cromwell, ‘I beseech ye, brethren, in the bowels of Christ, think it possible ye may be mistaken’.

John Knox could never be mistaken. And this gave him the right, indeed the duty, to speak and write to whom he chose, as he chose.

In his portraits we see a sturdy, rather short person with bear-brown hair framing a non-committal face that shows nothing of the fires, the ardours, the coldness, the hatred, within his soul. Physically he resembled, to some degree, a brown bear. One would imagine the hug would hold.

Any hug born of affection in him enclosed very young girls—both his wives (he married the second when he was fifty-nine years of age) were barely sixteen at the time of their marriage. His reproofs to those succumbing to the lusts of the flesh were particularly severe.

His career knew as many contrasts as his character. Formerly a priest of the Church of Rome, he became an apostate, and, after rebelling against Mary of Guise, Queen Regent of Scotland, he was sentenced to a year and a half as a slave in a French galley. On his release, he took refuge in England, where he remained until the accession of ‘mischievous Mary’, when, deeming it his duty not to accept martyrdom (although he reproved in no measured terms others who had felt the same dictates of conscience), he repaired, in some haste, to Geneva and Zurich, for conversations with Calvin and others, on certain especially delicate spiritual problems.

From these far cities, the Reformer lectured his fellow Protestants who, left in England, were faced with the probability of being burned alive, on the subject of their behaviour and outlook.

They must not, he insisted, ‘hate with any carnal hatred these blind, cruel and malicious tyrants’. Any hatred they felt must be purely spiritual. No doubt, in his own mind, his references to the ‘loathsome legs’ of Mary of Guise, dying of dropsy, and his delighted record of the murder and subsequent treatment of the body of Cardinal Beaton (‘these things we write merrily’), were inspired purely by spiritual, not carnal, hatred. But hatred, actually, had replaced love in his heart, and was regarded by him as a virtue.

From the safety of Dieppe, the Reformer sent also a tract to the ‘Professors of God’s truth in England’. After indulging in a good many comparisons of Queen Mary Tudor with certain undesirable persons described in the Old Testament, he prayed that ‘God, for his great mercy’s sake, stir up some Phineas, Elias, or Jehu, that the blood of abominable idolaters may pacify God’s wrath, that it consume not the whole multitude’.

‘In casting such a pamphlet into England at the time he did’, wrote his biographer Hume Brown, ‘he indulged his indignation, in itself so natural under the circumstances, at no personal risk, while he seriously compromised those who had the strongest claims on his most generous consideration.’

This was the man who, great in his way, small in his way, now returned to his native country and proceeded to exhort the godly and to defy the Queen Regent. It must be said that he found some of his natural enemies, the Catholic Prelates, behaving in a manner calculated to inspire him to eloquence.

The Prelates had not, of recent years, been popular in Scotland. It was only a matter of time before they would be seen to ‘cast no shadows’ and to have cloven hooves. But at the moment they contented themselves, according to their detractors, with producing ‘a flock of bastard birds’, amongst the most active in this respect being (according to a letter from Randolph, the English Ambassador, to Cecil), the Bishop of Dunblane. Of him ‘it were shameful to speak; he spareth not his own daughter’.

Of this conduct, Knox, who seems to have had a peculiar gift for inducing acute hysteria in his hearers, made full use in his oratory, for which he can scarcely be blamed; and the resultant excitement spread like wildfire.