Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles by Margaret George Page A
Authors: Margaret George
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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as the adventure began. There was danger in it, and rather than being afraid, she felt reborn, created in it.
Down the long castle steps the party descended in darkness they dared not risk flaring torches, not with the English reported only six miles away that afternoon. At the base of the stairs, horses awaited them, and the girls were settled behind the adults; no Shetland pony could go as fast as this party intended to race through the night.
Then they were away, galloping into the darkness, with the head groom from the castle stable as a guide on this moonless night.
The air was chilly, and the ground was covered in mist, which swirled and made eddies as they passed through it. Mary clung tightly to the back of Lord John Erskine; Mary Livingston was riding behind her own father, Alexander.
In the night Mary could hear sounds of animals in the thickets: herds of wild cattle and deer and the beating wings of startled waterfowl. Weasels and stoats scrambled in the underbrush and once her hair prickled as she heard it a pack of wolves howled in the darkness.
It all seemed a dream, the darkness and the jouncing and the alien smells and sounds; and so it was not less a dream when they pulled up by the side of a lake and were met by a boatman. As the sky grew milky, and mists were rising from the lake with its reeds standing like yellow sentinels, they were rowed toward a green island with white buildings, glowing in the pearly radiance of the dawn. Mary stepped off the boat onto a carpet of spongy green grass and was met by a tall cowled figure.
"Welcome, my child," he said, bending on one knee. "Welcome to Inchmahome."
His outer robes were black and his cowl so deep she could not clarly see his face. But the voice, soothing and gentle, seemed as much a dream as everything else that magic night and dawn. Sighing, she collapsed in the Prior's arms, carried away by peace.
She slept three-quarters of the day, and when she finally awoke it was late afternoon. Long, honey-coloured beams of light were coming through a row of windows in what seemed to be a large but very plain room. The walls were plastered but not decorated or adorned in any way; the floor was bare stone. The bed she lay on was not soft, but firm, and the sheets were coarse. They had an astringent smell, like clean air and things bleached by the sun. And the faint, lingering odour of sweet woodruff clung to them.
From somewhere she heard the distant sound of chanting. She got up she had slept fully dressed and walked slowly over to the open window. Outside she could see trees, very green grass, water, and, next door, a small church. The chanting was rising from there. It was faint, and sounded like the far shore of Heaven. She leaned out over the windowsill and let the soft air stir her hair, and lay, drowsing, in the beauty of the sun and the floating voices. Never had she felt such peace.
It was thus that the Prior found her when he returned to his room after the service of None. The little girl was draped over the windowsill, sleeping with a smile on her fair oval face.
The puir wee bairn, he thought. I had never thought to see my own Queen here in my monastery. She's a faerie-creature that we have all heard of but no one has ever seen, since they keep her locked up at Stirling.
The Prior, Brother Thomas, was doing penance for "rejoicing in iniquity" as forbidden in I Corinthians 13:5: Charity seeketh not her own, thinketh no evil, rejoice thee not in iniquity. For Brother Thomas had been, if not actually joyful at the death of Robert Erskine, the layman who had been handed the prior ship of Inchmahome as a royal present, at least rejoicing at regaining temporary control of his monastery. Pinkie Clough had claimed young Robert; his father, the little Queen's guardian, had arrived with the royal visitors and would doubtless appoint his second son, John, to take over in Robert's place. But in the meantime,
Down the long castle steps the party descended in darkness they dared not risk flaring torches, not with the English reported only six miles away that afternoon. At the base of the stairs, horses awaited them, and the girls were settled behind the adults; no Shetland pony could go as fast as this party intended to race through the night.
Then they were away, galloping into the darkness, with the head groom from the castle stable as a guide on this moonless night.
The air was chilly, and the ground was covered in mist, which swirled and made eddies as they passed through it. Mary clung tightly to the back of Lord John Erskine; Mary Livingston was riding behind her own father, Alexander.
In the night Mary could hear sounds of animals in the thickets: herds of wild cattle and deer and the beating wings of startled waterfowl. Weasels and stoats scrambled in the underbrush and once her hair prickled as she heard it a pack of wolves howled in the darkness.
It all seemed a dream, the darkness and the jouncing and the alien smells and sounds; and so it was not less a dream when they pulled up by the side of a lake and were met by a boatman. As the sky grew milky, and mists were rising from the lake with its reeds standing like yellow sentinels, they were rowed toward a green island with white buildings, glowing in the pearly radiance of the dawn. Mary stepped off the boat onto a carpet of spongy green grass and was met by a tall cowled figure.
"Welcome, my child," he said, bending on one knee. "Welcome to Inchmahome."
His outer robes were black and his cowl so deep she could not clarly see his face. But the voice, soothing and gentle, seemed as much a dream as everything else that magic night and dawn. Sighing, she collapsed in the Prior's arms, carried away by peace.
She slept three-quarters of the day, and when she finally awoke it was late afternoon. Long, honey-coloured beams of light were coming through a row of windows in what seemed to be a large but very plain room. The walls were plastered but not decorated or adorned in any way; the floor was bare stone. The bed she lay on was not soft, but firm, and the sheets were coarse. They had an astringent smell, like clean air and things bleached by the sun. And the faint, lingering odour of sweet woodruff clung to them.
From somewhere she heard the distant sound of chanting. She got up she had slept fully dressed and walked slowly over to the open window. Outside she could see trees, very green grass, water, and, next door, a small church. The chanting was rising from there. It was faint, and sounded like the far shore of Heaven. She leaned out over the windowsill and let the soft air stir her hair, and lay, drowsing, in the beauty of the sun and the floating voices. Never had she felt such peace.
It was thus that the Prior found her when he returned to his room after the service of None. The little girl was draped over the windowsill, sleeping with a smile on her fair oval face.
The puir wee bairn, he thought. I had never thought to see my own Queen here in my monastery. She's a faerie-creature that we have all heard of but no one has ever seen, since they keep her locked up at Stirling.
The Prior, Brother Thomas, was doing penance for "rejoicing in iniquity" as forbidden in I Corinthians 13:5: Charity seeketh not her own, thinketh no evil, rejoice thee not in iniquity. For Brother Thomas had been, if not actually joyful at the death of Robert Erskine, the layman who had been handed the prior ship of Inchmahome as a royal present, at least rejoicing at regaining temporary control of his monastery. Pinkie Clough had claimed young Robert; his father, the little Queen's guardian, had arrived with the royal visitors and would doubtless appoint his second son, John, to take over in Robert's place. But in the meantime,
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