The Queen's Almoner

  The Queen’s Almoner

  Tonya Ulynn Brown

  THE QUEEN’S ALMONER

  BY TONYA ULYNN BROWN

  Published by Late November Literary

  Winston Salem, NC 27107

  ISBN (Print): 978-1-7341008-8-4

  ISBN (E-Book): 978-1-7341008-9-1

  Copyright 2020 by Tonya Ulynn Brown

  Cover design by Sweet N’ Spicy Designs

  Interior design by Late November Literary

  Available in print or online. Visit latenovemberliterary.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without written permission of the publisher, except as provided by the U.S. copyright law.

  This is a work of historical fiction based on the life of Mary, Queen of Scots. Some of the characters and events come from the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any brand names, places, or trademarks remain the property of their respective owners and are only used for fictional purposes.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data

  Brown, Tonya Ulynn.

  The Queen’s Almoner / Tonya Ulynn Brown 1st ed.

  Printed in the Unites States of America

  References:

  *Sulpicia Poem 1

  Corelis, Jon. (2017). Roman Erotic Elegy. Retrieved 4/2/2020 from https://sites.google.com/site/romanelegybackup/sulpicia

  **Petrarch Poem 132

  Durling, R.M. (1976) Petrarch's Lyric Poems. Harvard University Press

  Dedication

  For my husband and children: Stephen, Garren, and Gabriel,

  for your continual encouragement and patience with me.

  And for my mother, Donna, for always believing in me.

  Author’s Note

  This is a work of fiction. A study of the life of Mary, Queen of Scots will reveal that many of the events that take place in this story did indeed happen. Yet, these events have been spun through the wheel of my imagination. The actions of the young queen have been scrutinized by many a historian, yet the feelings and thoughts that went through her mind, causing her to make the decisions she made are purely my invention. I have created several fictional characters in this story, yet many of the characters in this book were real people who interacted with Mary Stuart in some way. I have taken great liberty in their physical descriptions and personalities in order to fit the story that I wanted to tell.

  PART I

  In my springtime's gladness

  And flower of my young heart,

  I feel the deepest sadness

  Of the most grievous hurt.

  ~Mary Queen of Scots~

  ~1~

  August 1561

  The jagged rocks that marked the shoreline of the River Forth still bore the evidence of yesterday evening’s storm. It left a mixture of sediment and foam that stank of the ocean life that lived just beyond the firth’s reach. The air was foul here, nevertheless, it was my chosen place of waiting. It was here that I sat every morning for the past two months. Aye, for two months I had faithfully come, not knowing the day nor the hour of her arrival.

  My bonnie lass, the secret name I had affectionately called Mary when we were children, still clung to the fragments of my memory. Yet I had to keep reminding myself that she wasn’t little anymore. She was a woman now and although still young, she had already experienced widowhood.

  “Did her letter to you happen to mention when her boat is to be expected?” My acquaintance, William Maitland, decided to join me today in my wait, and his words now pulled me from my reverie.

  “It did not. She simply gave her date of departure, a few suggested courses her boat might take, and that she would be wearing a black dress.”

  Maitland laughed a deep, throaty rumble. “Yes, I can see why that would be one of the more important bits of information to share with you.”

  I shot him a sardonic look, but it went unnoticed.

  Instead, he leaned casually with one elbow upon a large rock, his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. As usual, his knee-high boots shone without a scuff. Although he had dressed in his impeccable taste, I observed the carefree manner in which he waited and was convinced that he was not as anxious as I to see our beloved queen.

  “Tis a shame…about her husband, I mean,” he said. “There could be no more glorious a court than that of Francis and Mary in France. She surely will be a sight to behold. I have heard she is quite comely.”

  “I do not know about that.” I tried to blow off his effusive display of enthusiasm. “All I do know is that I could not allow her homecoming to pass unmarked without my acknowledgement.”

  “What of the church?” Maitland asked. “What of your duties there? Surely, you do not shirk them.”

  “I requested a leave of my position from the church in Glasgow with a promise that I would put myself to work upon my arrival in Edinburgh. I then left immediately and have been waiting here every day since.”

  Maitland turned toward me with an amused smile. “Remind me again how you, an almoner, came to be such good friends with the queen of Scotland.”

  I sensed his incredulity but decided to indulge him anyway. “My mother was Mary’s nursemaid, so we were playmates for the first five years of her life.”

  “Until she was whisked away to France?”

  “Aye. I was devastated when she was taken away. I was only six years older than her, but I felt as though it was my duty to protect her. I looked after her with as much love and care as I was sure her father would have desired an elder brother to have done.”

  He studied me momentarily. “You know her mother did that to protect her. When I served as her mother’s secretary, she spoke often of her decision to send her daughter away. She was an austere regent, but no one doubted her love for her daughter.”

  I did know, but it did not lessen the childish hurt I had experienced.

  My mind wandered back to the last time I had seen Mary. I could not forget the day I learned of her mother’s plans for her. I heard the servants talking of how she was going to be taken to France to remove her from Henry of England’s reach. He wanted her for his son, but Mary’s mother had other plans. She was to be engaged to the French King Henry’s son instead.

  Later, Mary, a mere five years old, came to tell me the news herself. She sobbed uncontrollably at first, and even I myself fought the urge to cry. “I do not want to leave you,” the young queen had said. “I do not want to leave Scotland!”

  I did not desire her to leave either, but I would not allow the little queen to see me weak. At eleven years of age, I tried to act like an adult. I wiped her eyes and hushed her by producing a stick of sugar and promised her that I would write to her while she was in France. “And you write to me too. It is a good way to practice your letters,” I had told her. Later, when I was hidden in my own room, the force of the tears could not be prevented any longer. I allowed myself to cry until my strength was spent, and I fell unconsciously into a deep sleep. When I awoke the next morning, she was already gone. I felt as if I had lost my own sister and only friend.

  The sting of her loss had faded, however, and in its place stood a comfortable friendship kept alive by the letters we exchanged over the years. But now, thirteen years later, it was Mary’s last letter that brought me home. Her husband, the king of France, had died, and she was returning to Scotland.

  “Look there.” Maitland patted my arm, pointing to the south.

  A boat approached. From a distance it was rather unassuming, but when at last we saw the bright banners of her caravel unfurled against the earthy backdrop of the Scottish horizon, there was no doubt. It was her.

  “At long last, our queen,” Maitland
said, as if he doubted this day would ever come.

  My heart began to beat rapidly, and I took a deep breath to calm myself.

  “Are you coming?” Maitland called, already moving toward the banks.

  I pushed myself off the rock where I sat, but my feet would not cooperate. While I hesitated, Maitland scurried down the rocks.

  “Make haste, man!” he cried, almost at the bottom of the cliff. His impatience shook me, and I finally found the fortitude to move.

  I wondered if Mary would recognize me. We had written to each other throughout our childhoods, but once she married the French Dauphin, her letters became scarce, and even more so when they were crowned sovereigns. Still, she had written to me two months earlier and pledged her devotion to me and told me how much she looked forward to renewing our friendship upon her return to Scotland.

  When the boat finally docked on the shore, the happy party disembarked noisily. The sight of Mary would stay with me for the remainder of my days. Her rosy cheeks shaded her alabaster skin and complimented her auburn hair. She wore a black attifet trimmed in lace on her head that still allowed the display of the curls that spilled from beneath its cover. Her slender neck was enshrouded in a puff of crinkled lace and was adorned with a large gold crucifix that hung to her waist. She had grown quite tall, and her slender waist was accentuated by a heavy brocade bodice that flattered her figure of 18 years.

  In all her pomp, she still greeted the excited crowd that had started to gather. She touched those who cried out to her and tried to make contact with as many of her subjects as possible. The vigor that flooded her as she stepped upon the soil of her estranged homeland energized her and brought even more color to her cheeks.

  I watched her draw in a deep breath, as if she could consume the spirit of this land and these people by the simple task of filling her lungs. As she looked about her, she caught a glimpse of me. Her shoulders straightened, and her chin lifted as her eyes fastened onto mine. We were in a trance for an instant, but the phantasm was broken by recognition.

  “Thomas!” The queen ran to me and threw her arms around my neck. If anyone thought it was improper, they did not voice it.

  “I dared to hope that you would know me. It has been so long,” I confessed, hugging her in return.

  “Nonsense,” Mary scolded. “I would know you anywhere. You have not changed so much. I mean, your frame is taller, and your shoulders broader, but that is about it. Your eyes are still as pierce blue as I remember, and your hair is just as dark. You are the same boy I envision each time I put ink to paper to write you a letter and the same kind face I see when your penned words come back to me. Only, you are not a boy anymore. But yes, I have determined you have not changed.”

  “I cannot say the same for you, Your Highness. I tried to prepare myself for what to expect, but I must admit that my imagination did you no justice.”

  “Yes, well, it seems we have both grown up, Thomas Broune. I can only hope you like what you see.”

  I felt the color burn instantly on my cheeks. Mary must have remembered that I was an almoner now and chided herself for speaking so freely to me; for although we were old friends, I sensed that she felt a little ashamed that she had shown such impropriety.

  “Forgive me,” she whispered. She then placed her arm inside mine and drew me nearer. We traversed together for several paces as Mary continued to touch people and speak to those that had come to greet her.

  There was so much I wanted to say. However, this was not the place for intimate conversations. I hoped that sometime soon we would be able to speak in private.

  Eventually, she spoke again, “It means so much to me that you would put your life on hold to be here when I arrived.” A late summer breeze began to blow in from the firth, brightening her eyes as she looked at me.

  “All the sermons of John Knox could not keep me from coming.” I spoke the words in jest, but I could see concern cloud her eyes at the mention of the Reformer. I squeezed her hand gently in reassurance. “Do not mind that old preacher. I think his exhortations are harsher than his exploits.”

  “I hope for the sake of peace that you are right.”

  After about an hour the crowd had waned, and Mary was able to give instructions to the porter as to where she wanted her possessions placed once they reached Edinburgh. Then she turned her attention to me once more. “I want you to dine with us this evening at Holyroodhouse, Thomas. I have so much to talk to you about.”

  I had promised to visit a widow that evening to try and help her in a business matter concerning her late husband’s property. Although I knew I could not decline the queen’s invitation so easily, I needed to expound to her the nature of my business that evening and beg her pardon. But as I opened my mouth to speak, she rushed to greet a familiar acquaintance.

  I slipped away, my curiosity satisfied at the sight of her. I told myself to be content with that and be on my way. But I could not ignore the queen’s invitation to dinner. I decided to fulfill my obligation to visit the widow and help with her estate, but I would be back in time to grant my queen’s request.

  ~2~

  August 1561

  I slipped into the great hall of Holyroodhouse unannounced and unnoticed—or so I thought. Maitland spotted me from across the room and made his way toward me in an instant.

  “I see you have received an invitation to dine with the queen as well.” I faltered at hiding my surprise.

  “Aye, the queen honors me for her mother’s sake. She knows I was a loyal servant to her until her end,” Maitland explained.

  “Yet, it seems we are not the only ones with whom the queen wishes to dine.” I took in the sights of the room. “There are quite a few ambassadors and other important dignitaries present. I have been in Edinburg for two months and have never seen most of these people before. They must be here to grovel at the feet of our queen.”

  “Mary’s arrival has worked as a salt bath to draw these leeches out of hiding.”

  We moved further into the room, and I turned my attention toward some of the furnishings. This room had been a playground for us as children, and I was suddenly hit with the memories of it.

  “Not much has changed in the great hall since Mary and I played hide-and-seek within these walls as children,” I observed, eyeing the grand mahogany table positioned in the center of the hall. It stood on gluttonous legs, each carved as eagle’s claws grasping marble spheres known as Eyes of Diana. Too heavy to ever be moved, it remained in place, a stalwart example for the kings and queens to come.

  “Yes, I had forgotten that Her Highness and you roamed these halls for the first few years of her life.” He spoke the words amusingly, yet I persisted in my woolgathering.

  “Underneath here was Mary’s preferred hiding place.” I tapped the top of the massive table. “Mine was those heavy, English-imported tapestries that cascade from ceiling to floor. Mary could never find me when I hid behind them, even though I chose that place almost every time we played. One could spend a quarter of an hour or more eluding unsuspecting searchers by sliding along the length and breadth of the hall hidden behind those woven cloaks.”

  “Somehow I have a hard time imagining the elegant queen crawling around on the floor.”

  “Hide-and-seek wasn’t the only use for the magnificent table. On many occasions it served our imaginations well.” Seeing I had Maitland’s rapt attention, I allowed myself to continue in my childhood memory. “It also served as the monastery at Eigg, where the Pictish band of female warriors from Lock nam Ban Mora were sent to kill Saint Donan and his monks. I, of course, played the holy Irish saint, and all the Marys played the she-pirates.”

  At this, Maitland groaned in pure delight. “Ah, yes, the four Marys. I believe they have accompanied our queen back to their homeland, have they not?”

  I nodded, but it wasn’t the four Marys with whom I was concerned. My eyes darted to and fro the length of the hall as I searched for Mary, but she had not arrived yet. Strange.
A peace had settled on me when she landed ashore mid-afternoon, but somewhere between her invitation to dinner and my business in town, an anxiousness concerning her overtook me once more.

  “You seem nervous, my friend,” Maitland commented. “Is it an unpleasant memory?”

  How could I put into words, not only my desire to see her, so that we may continue our conversation, but even more so, my desire to make sure she had arrived safely at Holyroodhouse?

  “Nay, just curious as to the queen’s whereabouts.”

  Maitland nodded but didn’t press for more clarification.

  Good. ‘Twas in my blood from a very young age. Just as a youngling feels empowered the first time he picks up a sword and knows he will one day be a knight, I too felt I had been born with a destiny. Some driving force that apprehended me and refused to release me. It lied dormant through the years as Mary lived and married in France, as if the task had been settled on another heretofore. But it was awakened—this day, actually, as if my predestination had been reaffirmed—to watch over this ethereal being. But I did not want to explain this to Maitland.

  I spotted a familiar face and excused myself in order that I might speak to him. It was Geraldo de Monte Rochen, the ambassador from Spain. He had a serious look on his face as he spoke in hushed tones to the man that stood beside him. That man was unknown to me, though as I approached, there stirred an odd feeling as if I had met him before—or, even knew him. He stood with his hands clasped tightly before him, his long, skeletal fingers bearing only one ornamentation—a ring, a signet, or something of the like. He had a hawk-like nose that, along with his boney fingers, gave him the perfect illusion of a bird of prey. He wore a long, meticulously trimmed beard and a small bonnet that lay flat against his head, puffing only slightly as if someone had let all the air out of it.