All the little girls looked solemn.

“I knew it,” said Flem.

“Then why didn’t you tell?” asked the Queen.

“Your Majesty did not ask,” answered Flem.

Seton said quietly: “Everyone won’t cry. The King of England will be pleased. I heard my father say so.”

“I hate the King of England,” said Mary.

Seton took the Queen’s hand and gave her one of her solemn, frightened looks. “You must not hate him,” she said.

“Mary can hate anyone!” said Flem.

“You should not hate your own father,” said Seton.

“He is not my father. My father is dead; he died while I was in my cradle and that is why I am the Queen.”

“If you have a husband,” persisted Seton, “his father is yours. My nurse told me so. She told me that you are to marry the English Prince Edward, and then the King of England will be your father.”

The Queen’s eyes flashed. “I will not!” she cried. “The English killed my father. I’ll not marry the English Prince.” But she knew that it was easy to be bold and say before her Marys what she would and would not do; she was a queen and had already been forced to do so many things against her will. She changed an unpleasant subject, for she hated to dwell on the unpleasant. “Come,” she said, “we will read and tell stories to make poor Beaton forget.”

They went to a window seat. Mary sat down and the others ranged themselves about her.

But the vast room seemed full of frightening shadows. It was not easy to chase away unpleasant thoughts. They could read and tell stories but they could not entirely forget that Mary Beaton’s uncle had been stabbed to death and that one day the Queen would have to leave her childhood behind her and become the wife of some great prince who would be chosen for her.


THE QUEEN-MOTHER noticed at once the traces of tears on her daughter’s face. She frowned. Mary was too emotional. The fault must be corrected.

The little Queen’s stern guardians would have noticed the marks of tears.

Since the Cardinal had been murdered there were only three guardians—Moray, Huntley and Argyle.

The Queen-Mother herself could have shed tears if she had been the woman to give way to them. The Cardinal was the one man in this turbulent land whom she had felt she could trust.

She looked about the assembly. There was the Regent, Arran, the head of the house of Hamilton, and of royal blood, longing to wear the crown of Scotland; Arran, who could not be trusted, whom she suspected of being the secret friend of the English, who had hoped to marry his son to the English King’s daughter Elizabeth, and who doubtless had hopes of his son’s wearing not only the crown of Scotland but that of England. There was false Douglas, so long exiled in England and only daring to return to Scotland after the death of James; Douglas, who had schemed with the King of England. He it was who had agreed, when in the hands of the English, to the marriage between the little Queen and Prince Edward. It was he who had come with soft words to the Queen-Mother, setting forth the advantages of the match.

There was the giant Earl of Bothwell who had hopes of marrying the Queen-Mother. Was he loyal? How could she know who in this assembly of men was her friend? Scotland was a divided country, a wild country of clans. There was not in Scotland that loyalty to the crown which the English and French Kings commanded.

And I, she thought, am a woman—a Frenchwoman—and my child, not yet five, is the Queen of this alien land.

All eyes were on the little girl. What grace! What beauty! It was apparent even at so young an age. Even those hoary old chieftains were moved by the sight of her. How gracefully she stood! How nobly she held her head! She had all the Stuart beauty and that slight touch of something foreign which came from her French ancestors and which could enhance even the Stuart charm.

“God protect her in all she does,” prayed her mother.

She raised her eyes and caught the flashing ones of Lord James Stuart—Stuart eyes, heavy lidded, not unlike Mary’s, beautiful eyes; and the proud tilt of the head denoted ambition. He was a boy yet in his early teens. But ambition smoldered there. Was he thinking even now: Had my father married my mother, I should be sitting in the chair of state and it would be my hand those men would kiss?

“God preserve my daughter from these Scots!” prayed the Queen-Mother.

Now the little Queen stood while the great chieftains came forward to kiss her hand. She smiled at them—at Arran, at Douglas. They looked so kind. Now came Jamie—dear Jamie. Jamie knelt before her but when he lifted his eyes to her face he gave her a secret wink, and she felt the laughter bubble up within her. It was rather funny that tall, handsome Jamie should kneel before his little sister. She knew why of course, for she had demanded to know. It was because although his mother was not the Queen, the King, her father, had also been Jamie’s father. Mary had other brothers and sisters. It was a pity, she had said to her Marys, that their mothers had not been queens, for it would have been fun to have a large family living about her—even though she was so much younger.

Now her mother would not allow her to stay.

“The Queen is very tired,” she said, “and it is time she was abed.”

Mary wanted to stay. She wanted to talk to Jamie, to ask questions about the dead Cardinal.

But although they all kissed her hand and swore to serve her with their lives, they would not let her stay up when she wanted to. She knew she must show no annoyance. A queen did not show her feelings. Her mother had impressed that upon her.

They all stood at attention while she walked out of the apartment to where her governess, Lady Fleming, was waiting for her.

“Our little Queen does not look very pleased with her courtiers,” said Janet Fleming with one of her gay bursts of laughter.

“No, she is not,” retorted Mary. “I wanted to stay and talk to Jamie. He winked when he kissed my hand.”

“Gentlemen winking at you already—and you the Queen!” cried Janet. Mary laughed. She was very fond of her governess who was also her aunt. For one thing red-haired Janet was very beautiful, and, although no longer in her first youth, was as full of fun as her young charge. She was a Stuart, being the natural daughter of Mary’s grandfather; and little Mary Fleming was her daughter. She could be wheedled into letting the Queen have much of her own way, and Mary loved her dearly.

“He is only my brother,” she said.

“And should be thankful for that,” said Janet. “Were he not, it would be an insult to the crown.”

She went on chattering while Mary was prepared for bed; it was all about dancing, clothes, sport and games, and when her mother came to the apartment Mary had temporarily forgotten the grief which Beaton had aroused in her.

The Queen-Mother dismissed all those who were in attendance on the Queen, so Mary knew that she was going to be reprimanded. It was a strange thing to be a queen. In public no one must scold; but it happened often enough in private.

“You have been crying,” accused Marie of Lorraine. “The traces of tears were on your face when you received the lords.”

Fresh tears welled up in Mary’s eyes at the memory. Poor Beaton! She remembered those desperate choking sobs.

“Did your women not wash your face before you came to the audience?”

“Yes, Maman, but it was such a big grief that it would not come off.”

The Queen-Mother softened suddenly and bent to kiss the little face. Mary laughed and her arms went up immediately about her mother’s neck.

The Queen-Mother was somewhat disturbed. Mary was too demonstrative, always too ready to show her feelings. It was a charming trait, but not right, she feared, in a girl of such an exalted position.

“Now,” admonished Marie, “that is enough. Tell me the reason for these tears.”

“Men have stuck knives into Beaton’s uncle.”

So she knew! thought her mother. How could you keep terrible news from children? Mary had good reason to shed tears. Cardinal Beaton, upholder of the Church of Rome in a land full of heretics, had indeed been her friend. Who would protect her now from those ambitious men?

“You loved the Cardinal then, my daughter?”

“No.” Mary was truthful and spoke without thinking of the effect of her words. “I did not much like him. I cried for poor Beaton.”

Her mother smoothed the chestnut hair, so soft yet so thick, which rippled back from the white forehead. Mary would always weep for the wrong reasons.

“I share little Beaton’s grief,” said the Queen-Mother, “for the Cardinal was not only a good man, he was a good friend.”

“Why did they kill him, Maman?”

“Because of Wishart’s death … so they say.”

“Wishart, Maman? Who is he?”

What am I saying? the Queen-Mother asked herself. I forget she is only a baby. I must keep her from these tales of bloodshed and murder as long as I can.

But Mary was all eager curiosity now. She would find out in some way. Behind those deeply set, beautiful eyes there was an alert mind, thirsting for knowledge.

“Wishart was a heretic, my child, and he paid the penalty of heretics.”

“What penalty was that, Maman?”

“The death which is accorded heretics fell to him.”

”Maman… the flames!”

“How do you know these things?”

How did she know? She was not sure. Had one of her Marys whispered it? Had she seen pictures in the religious books? She covered her face with her hands and the tears began to flow from her eyes.

“Mary! Mary, what has come over you? This is no way to behave.”

“I cannot bear it. He was a Scotsman, and they have burned him… they have burned him right up.”

Marie de Guise was alarmed. A little knowledge was so dangerous, and her daughter was so impulsive. What would she say next? She was precocious. How soon before some of these men began to corrupt her faith? They would do everything in their power to turn her into a heretic. It must not be. For the honor of the Guises, for the glory of the Faith itself, it must not be.

“Listen to me, child. This man Wishart met his just reward, but because the Cardinal was a man of the true faith, Wishart’s friends murdered him.”

“Then they did right! I would murder those who burned my friends.”

“A little while ago you were crying for the Cardinal.”

“No, no,” she interrupted. “For dear Beaton.”

The Queen-Mother hesitated by the bedside. How could she explain all that was in her mind to a child of this one’s age? How could she expect this baby mind to understand? Yet she must protect her from the influence of heretics. How did she know what James Stuart whispered to the child when he pretended to frolic with her? How did she know what Arran and Douglas plotted?

“Listen to me, Mary,” she said. “There is one true Church in this world. It is the Church of Rome. At its head is the Pope, and it is the duty of all monarchs to serve the true religion.”

“And do they?”

“No, they do not. You must be careful what you say. If you do not understand, you must come to me. You must talk to no one about Wishart and the Cardinal… to no one… not even your Marys. You must remember that you are the Queen. You are but little yet, but to be a queen is not to be an ordinary little girl who thinks of nothing but playing. We do not know who are our friends. The King of England wants you in England.”

“Oh, Maman, should I take my Marys with me?”

“Hush! You are not going to England.” The mother took her child in her arms and held her tightly. “We do not want you to go to England. We want to keep you here with us.”

Mary’s eyes were wide. “Could they make me go?”

“Not unless …”

“Unless?”

“It were by force.”

Mary clasped her hands together. “Oh, Maman, could they do that?”

“They could if they were stronger than we were.”

Mary’s eyes shone. She could not help it. She loved excitement and, to tell the truth, she was a little tired of the castle where all the rooms were so familiar to her. She was never allowed to go beyond the castle grounds; and when she played, there were always men-at-arms watching.

Her mother came to a sudden decision. The child must be made to understand. She must be shocked, if need be, into understanding.