The Dog Who Loved A Queen

By Jackie French

Book 2 in the Animal Stars series - where history comes alive through the eyes of special animals. To outsiders, Mary is a queen and a threat, but to her devoted dog Folly, she is his world

To the world outside her luxurious prison, Mary Queen of Scots was either a shameless beauty who killed her husband, or the rightful Queen of England and Scotland, tragically held captive by Elizabeth I. But to the dog who loved her, Mary was simply his mistress, and the centre of his world.

While Mary desperately plotted to seize both her freedom and the throne, her dog Folly's world is one of chasing mice behind the tapestries and enjoying turkey legs with quinces for supper. Until the day comes when they try to take his Queen away ... Based on the true story of the dog who was with Mary when she died, the Dog Who Loved a Queen is a fascinating tale of religious bigotry, plots and passion - and the unquestioning loyalty of a small Scottish terrier.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Feb 1, 2010
• ISBN: 9780730444152

Jackie French

Jackie French AM is an award-winning writer, wombat negotiator, the 2014–2015 Australian Children's Laureate and the 2015 Senior Australian of the Year. In 2016 Jackie became a Member of the Order of Australia for her contribution to children's literature and her advocacy for youth literacy. She is regarded as one of Australia's most popular children's authors and writes across all genres — from picture books, history, fantasy, ecology and sci-fi to her much loved historical fiction for a variety of age groups. ‘A book can change a child's life. A book can change the world' was the primary philosophy behind Jackie's two-year term as Laureate. jackiefrench.com facebook.com/authorjackiefrench

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Once upon a time…

Once upon a time (on 8 December 1542, to be exact) a princess was born in Scotland. Six days later her father died, and she became Queen: Mary, Queen of Scots.

The King of neighbouring England, Henry VIII (who married six wives, beheaded two and declared he was head of the English Church so he could divorce another), decided that he wanted the baby Queen to marry Edward, his son, to unite the two countries.

Scotland and England had been enemies for hundreds of years. England was bigger, and much richer, but Scotland had managed to stay independent.

Mary was also related to Henry’s sister. This meant that if Henry and his son died, Mary might become Queen of England too. Henry had already declared that both his daughters (born of wives he’d killed or divorced) were ‘bastards’—or illegitimate and so not legally able to inherit the throne.

Mary’s mother, Marie de Guise, didn’t want to risk her daughter in a country ruled by a madman. Afraid that Henry would kidnap the child, she sent Mary to her relatives in France to marry François, heir to the French throne. Mary was only five years old. She would only ever see her mother once again…

But life was glorious for the child Queen at the French court. Mary grew up loved and admired. She was a tall and beautiful girl and a wonderful dancer, who adored riding and playing with her animals. François became her closest friend, even before they were married when she was fifteen.

When Mary was sixteen, François became King, and Mary Queen of France as well as Scotland. Mary claimed to be Queen of England too—instead of King Henry VIII’s daughter Elizabeth. If Elizabeth was illegitimate, as her father had claimed, then Mary had a right to the English throne too—even if the English didn’t think so.

Then suddenly François died, screaming in agony from an abscess in his ear. Mary was a widow, just days before her eighteenth birthday. Her mother-in-law was now Queen again, regent (or caretaker ruler) for François’s younger brother—and she didn’t want a young and beautiful ex-queen hanging around. Mary’s mother had died too. Mary had to leave the French court, which she had known and loved most of her life, and sail back to rule poor tiny Scotland, a place she could hardly remember.

Mary did her best. But it was never quite good enough. Scotland was torn between those who followed the new Protestant religion and those who still belonged to the Catholic Church of Rome. Elsewhere in Europe, rulers would kill, torture or exile people who didn’t practise the same religion as they did, but Mary vowed to be tolerant even of those who weren’t Catholic like she was.

Scotland had been ruled by the Scottish lords since Mary’s mother had died—and they were mostly Protestant. They didn’t like giving up their power—especially to a woman and a Catholic. In those days, women were wives or servants—they couldn’t be doctors, lawyers or farmers. How could a woman have the brains or strength to rule a country? The Scottish lords plotted against her.

Mary was used to being loved, and now she was lonely. She married Lord Darnley, even though everyone advised her not to. They had a son, James. But Darnley was a terrible husband. He abused her, killed her beloved secretary (or personal assistant) in front of her and even tried to seize her throne for himself.

And then he was killed, the house where he was staying blown up and his body found naked and strangled in the garden by the servants of James Hepburn, Lord Bothwell.

Bothwell was one of the Protestant lords, powerful and ambitious, with a furious temper. Immediately many suspected that he had arranged for Mary’s husband to be killed—especially when he kidnapped Mary and kept her imprisoned until she agreed to marry him.

A Catholic and a queen had been bad enough. The Scottish lords just couldn’t accept Bothwell—their equal—as their King. And there were rumours flying around—Mary had been having an affair with Bothwell all along! She had been a part of the plot to kill her husband!

But there was no proof. Only whispers. And perhaps Mary had just married Bothwell in desperation, to escape captivity or even hoping that he might help her keep her throne.

The Scottish lords raised an army against Mary and Bothwell. They demanded that Bothwell fight one of them in single combat. Instead, Mary surrendered in exchange for his escape—and historians have argued ever since whether this was because she loved him, or because she had realised that she was better off without him, or simply to avoid a battle that would pit Scot against Scot.

Bothwell fled. Pregnant with twins, Mary was imprisoned. In a gaol on an island, Mary lost the babies she was carrying. The Scottish lords forced her to abdicate, and her baby son James was made King instead, with Mary’s half-brother to rule in his place as regent until he grew up.

Mary escaped and raised an army, but was defeated. Desperate, she fled into England, where she hoped Elizabeth, a fellow queen, would help her regain her throne—or at least help her get back to France where her Guise relatives might raise another army.

Unfortunately, Mary had refused to renounce her claim to the English throne. Elizabeth knew that if her cousin had an army big enough to win her the Scottish throne, she might attack England too. Instead of helping Mary, Elizabeth kept her prisoner.

So Mary waited. Waited for the Catholic Kings of France or Spain to invade England to rescue her and make her a Catholic Queen of England, instead of Protestant Elizabeth. Waited for the English Catholics to rise up and kill their Queen and take Mary in her place. Waited for letters and for the few brief walks in the sunlight she was allowed.

She was still a queen. Hundreds of servants saw to her comfort and her loyal friends stayed at her side. Luxuries came by coach from France, Scotland, Belgium.

Fifteen years passed. One day a coach brought a small black dog…

A dog who’d love a queen.

CHAPTER 1 I Discover the World

Scotland, Spring 1583

My first memory is of smells, for I couldn’t see or hear. The scents of chickens turning on the spit, of oatcake baking on our hearth, of legs of mutton smoking at the side of the big fireplace above our basket, where the three of us puppies squirmed over each other to get to Mam.

The first thing I can remember seeing was Nanny Breeks’s face looming down at me. It had no fur on it at all, unless you counted the hairs that sprouted from the big mole by her nose. And then she spoke.

‘Look at that belly! Any bigger and he’d go pop.’

Nanny Breeks smelt of the pastries she made for the Master and of gingerbread, rich and sweet and spicy.

Our world grew more interesting once we pups could see and hear. I was the fattest, Bo was the strongest and Lally the most adventurous.

It was Lally who first worked out how to wriggle out of our basket onto the cold stone floor. But it was I who discovered that porridge straight from the pot burns your nose. I learnt that eating feathers makes you choke, too, and bring up a milky mess on Nanny’s floor.

But Nanny Breeks just laughed. ‘Easily cleaned,’ was all she said, then she ordered Wee Jamie to fix it. Nanny’s laugh was so loud that it made the jellies quiver on the table.

Nanny Breeks was the most important person in the world. She was even more important than the Master. It was Nanny who kept the big porridge pot going glop, glop, glop for anyone who wanted to scoop up a spoonful and dip it into the bowls of cream and honey kept on the table by the fire.

It was Nanny who ordered Wee Jamie to keep the spit turning, to roast the hare or venison or rich fat mutton meat that was sent to the dining room for the Master. And it was Nanny who kept the best scraps for Mam, bones still rich with marrow and bits of skin so hard and crisp you just knew she would chew at them for hours and we’d smell the good meat smell on her whiskers all the next day.

I was still living mostly on Mam’s milk. But already I dreamt of good meals to come.

Nanny laughed a lot. She laughed when Wee Jamie dropped his spoon into the porridge pot and had to spend an hour fishing it out. She laughed when Lally led Bo and me to attack the broom as Young Rosie swept the hall, biting at the bristles with our sharp baby teeth.

‘She’ll be as grand a wee dog as her Mam,’ said Nanny, lifting the three of us up onto the big warm shelf of her chest and letting us lick a lump of butter from her fingers.

Mam was the best badger dog on the island. Her coat was as grey and shaggy as the cattle I glimpsed from the hall doorway. Her jaws were the strongest of any dog on the island, for all she only reached halfway up Nanny’s shins.

Mam’s Master had other, bigger dogs. But none of them could wriggle down into burrows like our Mam. When Mam’s jaws gripped, nothing ever got away.

As soon as we could lap, the Master would whistle in the courtyard. Mam would prick her ears and run to him, out the door, and off after his horse across the hills. She came back to us with peaty feet and red whiskers and exciting smells still clinging to her coat.

We puppies rolled and sniffed about her. We dreamt of the days when we’d be hunting foxes, otters and badgers (whatever they were), and have a fine master look at us with love and say, ‘Good dog.’

I remember it all, the good smells of the kitchen and the laughter.

I remember too the day the man came to take me away.

CHAPTER 2 I am Taken Away from the Island

Scotland, Summer 1583

It was summer, and the trees were suddenly green all over our heads. We puppies had tumbled out into the courtyard. I’d found a pile of chicken guts, still steaming. I snapped at the flies that buzzed above them and then I rolled, getting the lovely smell right through my coat.

I was so excited I didn’t notice the cart till it was almost on me. The horse’s hooves clattered on the cobblestones and the horse snorted and stamped its feet at me, till I scampered back into the kitchen hall and hid under Nanny’s skirts where I knew I would be safe.

Nanny laughed. She reached down and hauled me out and held me up by the scruff of my neck. ‘And what do ye think you’re doing down there, ye mucky beastie? Here, Wee Jamie, ye’d best take him…’ She stopped, for the Master had come in, with Mam at his heels, and a stranger behind them.

Nanny made a bobbing movement to the men and put me down. I scurried off to our basket. Mam trotted over and sniffed me. The others ran to us too and started nudging at Mam for a drink. But she shook us off and trotted back to the Master.

But the Master was looking at us. ‘Well, there they are, Master McPherson,’ he said to the stranger. ‘Three of them and nearly weaned. Which do ye fancy?’

The stranger shrugged. ‘I willna be doing the fancying, it’s Her Majesty.’

‘The Queen!’ breathed Nanny Breeks, her hand covering her mouth. I pricked up my ears. A queen must be almost as important as Nanny, I thought.

The Master bent down and picked up my brother. ‘This is the best of them. Good forequarters on him, and he knows his manners already.’

The stranger shook his head. ‘Her Majesty wants black dogs.’

‘Black?’

‘On account of she’s a widow and a prisoner too. Black, the Queen’s Edinburgh man said I was to get. Two black terriers from Scotland to match the Frenchie dogs. Wee ones, I wuz told.’ He poked Lally with his toe and she snapped at it. ‘Don’t suppose they come much smaller than this, eh?’

The Master stroked Bo’s nose with his fingertip. ‘They may be wee dogs, Master McPherson, but ye canna find bolder hunters. Girlie here,’ he bent down and riffled Mam’s ears, ‘can take on a fox or snap a weasel’s neck too. Ye should see her down a badger hole.’

Master McPherson shrugged. ‘Willna be nae badgers’ holes where they’re going.’

The Master put Bo down and picked up Lally. Her coat was as black as mine. ‘Well, here’s a black one for ye, and her brother’s black too.’ The Master looked down at me and hesitated. ‘What muck has he been rolling in? Nae, dinna tell me. I can guess. Well, he’s the only other black one. Do ye want him or not?’

‘Two I was told to get, and two it’ll have to be.’ The stranger took Lally and held her awkwardly. You could tell he’d not had much experience with dogs. ‘How much do ye want for them?’

The Master’s face darkened. ‘Nae money.’

‘The Queen can pay.’

‘I said nae money! It is an honour and a privilege to serve the true Queen of Scotland.’

The stranger looked embarrassed for a moment. ‘Well, as ye say. Have ye a basket?’

‘Ye’re nae takin’ them now!’ cried Nanny. ‘Wait a few weeks, till they’re weaned proper.’

Master McPherson shook his head. ‘There’s a coachload of fripperies going to the Queen from Edinburgh next week. Preserved quinces and sweet cakes from France and bales of cloth of gold. That’s the stuff to send a queen, eh? These two can travel along with it.’

‘But—’ began Nanny.

The Master shook his head. Nanny bit her lip. She waddled down the hall and unhooked a basket from the peg on the stone wall, then bent down to the hearth and took up the blanket that we’d always slept on with Mam.

Master McPherson looked at the blanket disdainfully. ‘Haven’t ye anything better?’

‘They’ll rest better on this,’ said Nanny, ‘with the smell of their Mam.’ She took Lally from the man and cuddled her. ‘Ye be a good dog for Her Majesty, then. A queen for a mistress! A dog canna ask for more!’

I wrinkled my nose, puzzled. I still hadn’t worked out what was going on. But Lally had her tail between her legs. She was always quicker than me. Nanny slipped Lally into the basket then picked me up, not cuddling me, because I was still mucky, but by the scruff of