Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles by Margaret George Page B
Authors: Margaret George
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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Brother Thomas ruled again and quite rightly so, he thought. The ruler of a priory should be a monk, not a royal appointee who did not even know the names of the Divine Services! Oh, I must do more penance, he thought wearily, as he entertained these thoughts and even welcomed them.
He gently touched the little girl's shoulder and she opened her eyes delicately coloured amber ones with flecks of gold.
"Good afternoon, Your Majesty," he said.
She stretched unselfconsciously. "I fell asleep hearing the most wonderful music. It was like angels."
"It was the monks who live here," he said. "See them walking about, across the cloister?" He pointed down at the bright green lawn surrounded on all sides by an arcade with graceful arches. Indeed, black-and-white-robed figures were moving in all directions, their paths crisscrossing. There were only three colours to be seen anywhere: black, white, and green, making an exquisite pattern of stillness against movement. Even the stones of the monastery were the same hues black, white, grey, with touches of green moss.
"They were praying to God," Prior Thomas explained. "We all gather in that church to do so eight times a day."
"Eight times!" she exclaimed.
"Indeed. The first time is in the middle of the night. That is our vigil service."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do you get up in the middle of the night to pray?"
"Because we feel closer to God then, when all the world is asleep and we wait for the dawn."
Mary yawned. "You must love God very much more than sleep, anyway!"
"Not always. But there is obedience, which is a very high form of love. It just does not feel so pretty at the time as the other kinds."
Like mystical union, and even suffering, he thought, feeling the welts from "the discipline" under his coarse wool habit. Obedience is a dry, dull sort of love; not a lover's love. But God seems to prefer it not the least of His peculiarities.
"You have missed our main meal," he said. "You must be very hungry. I can have some food sent up straightway. Bread, soup, eggs "
"Can I not eat with the monks?"
"Yes, but that is later, and I fear the last meal is sparse scarcely more than a bite or two."
"I should like to eat with the monks," she insisted.
At her age such things are a game, a novelty, he thought. Monks, and a "fasting supper" only after years does it become both natural and a sacrifice.
"As you wish," he said.
That night, at the long refectory table, Mary took her place, along with her mother and the other Marys. She watched the robed figures of the monks as they silently broke their bread and spooned their soup in slow, rhythmic motions. Beside them, the outsiders' movements seemed jerky and awkward as they brought the food to their mouths and drank from their wooden cups.
Mary found herself embarrassed by her fellow guests, and longed to eat as the monks did instead. She looked over at her mother, who was chewing a piece of bread with gusto. What was she thinking of? Mary tried to catch her eye, but the Queen Mother was completely absorbed in her own thoughts.
We are safe here on this island, thought Marie de Guise. The English will never find us in this place. But now I know Scotland cannot stand alone any longer. The Battle of Pinkie Clough has proved it. This was the end for Scotland as a true independent fighting force. The English will devour her. We must offer ourselves to France, throw ourselves on her mercy.
The thought of such abject crawling was a bitter one. But if she wished to hold Scotland for her daughter .. .
She looked over at Mary, seated with the other Marys. The little girl was watching the monks intently, and hardly eating anything. Her eyes followed every movement the monks made as they broke their bread and bowed their heads over their soup.
To her this is all an adventure, thought her mother. The gallop in the night, coming to an
He gently touched the little girl's shoulder and she opened her eyes delicately coloured amber ones with flecks of gold.
"Good afternoon, Your Majesty," he said.
She stretched unselfconsciously. "I fell asleep hearing the most wonderful music. It was like angels."
"It was the monks who live here," he said. "See them walking about, across the cloister?" He pointed down at the bright green lawn surrounded on all sides by an arcade with graceful arches. Indeed, black-and-white-robed figures were moving in all directions, their paths crisscrossing. There were only three colours to be seen anywhere: black, white, and green, making an exquisite pattern of stillness against movement. Even the stones of the monastery were the same hues black, white, grey, with touches of green moss.
"They were praying to God," Prior Thomas explained. "We all gather in that church to do so eight times a day."
"Eight times!" she exclaimed.
"Indeed. The first time is in the middle of the night. That is our vigil service."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do you get up in the middle of the night to pray?"
"Because we feel closer to God then, when all the world is asleep and we wait for the dawn."
Mary yawned. "You must love God very much more than sleep, anyway!"
"Not always. But there is obedience, which is a very high form of love. It just does not feel so pretty at the time as the other kinds."
Like mystical union, and even suffering, he thought, feeling the welts from "the discipline" under his coarse wool habit. Obedience is a dry, dull sort of love; not a lover's love. But God seems to prefer it not the least of His peculiarities.
"You have missed our main meal," he said. "You must be very hungry. I can have some food sent up straightway. Bread, soup, eggs "
"Can I not eat with the monks?"
"Yes, but that is later, and I fear the last meal is sparse scarcely more than a bite or two."
"I should like to eat with the monks," she insisted.
At her age such things are a game, a novelty, he thought. Monks, and a "fasting supper" only after years does it become both natural and a sacrifice.
"As you wish," he said.
That night, at the long refectory table, Mary took her place, along with her mother and the other Marys. She watched the robed figures of the monks as they silently broke their bread and spooned their soup in slow, rhythmic motions. Beside them, the outsiders' movements seemed jerky and awkward as they brought the food to their mouths and drank from their wooden cups.
Mary found herself embarrassed by her fellow guests, and longed to eat as the monks did instead. She looked over at her mother, who was chewing a piece of bread with gusto. What was she thinking of? Mary tried to catch her eye, but the Queen Mother was completely absorbed in her own thoughts.
We are safe here on this island, thought Marie de Guise. The English will never find us in this place. But now I know Scotland cannot stand alone any longer. The Battle of Pinkie Clough has proved it. This was the end for Scotland as a true independent fighting force. The English will devour her. We must offer ourselves to France, throw ourselves on her mercy.
The thought of such abject crawling was a bitter one. But if she wished to hold Scotland for her daughter .. .
She looked over at Mary, seated with the other Marys. The little girl was watching the monks intently, and hardly eating anything. Her eyes followed every movement the monks made as they broke their bread and bowed their heads over their soup.
To her this is all an adventure, thought her mother. The gallop in the night, coming to an
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