First Marie

CHAPTER ONE – THE LOCH The tall woman stood at the casement, leaning against a roughly hewn oak writing desk to steady herself against the weakness that had accompanied the loss of her child. She recalled with wry amusement a time when she had gazed out at the Loch and found it charming, when the Loch was one of her favorite retreats. She must have been influenced by the sweet May wine she consumed at suppers hosted by the laird and his wife, washing the pleasant taste of the roasted starlings her Merlin falcon had slain that morning and delivered to her gauntleted hand. Had she known her future, she would have set him free. The thought brought a brief reprieve from the gloom, but it swiftly passed away. Perhaps she would have wrung its neck instead, she confessed as she turned to see whose rustling skirts had approached from behind. It was Jane Kennedy, her finely arched brows so creased by worry that they nearly met over the bridge of her narrow nose. “The laird plans to let you practice your hawking from this window,” Kennedy offered to assuage the gloom, but it did not have the desired effect. “Just as they offer to appease the absence of my confessor with an occasional visit from Knox, or grant me relief from the loss of the child I carried by permitting me to cuddle the newborn of my jailor’s wife. Spare me news of such gentle acts of kindness, Jane.” It was a mild reprimand, but it sent the lady retreating to her embroidery. The queen turned from the window. She felt a nagging pull in her abdomen. Like the tingling in her breasts, she had thought it a vestige of the miscarriage, but now she was less certain. The pull grew into a spasm, and the queen dropped her hands to her belly. In a moment the sensation passed, but the queen moved to the only cushioned chair in the chamber and sat. She summoned Seaton from the anteroom where Seton had been employed in sorting a trunk of garments that she had brought from Seton Castle. She hunted for gowns of her own that might fit the queen if the hems were lowered an inch or two. Since they were children, she was the only one of the queen’s attendants who approached her height. “Leave that, Seton,” the queen called. “We wish to speak to you.” The queen turned to Jane, who was startled and missed a stitch. “Privately, Jane, s’il vous plait,” she commanded, as if privacy were possible in the small chambers assigned her at the loch. The girl dutifully withdrew to the alcove and busied herself, as Seton brushed past and knelt to sit upon a pillow near Marie Stuart’s feet. “Do not sit, Seton. Help me stand, and guide me to the roof. I need fresher air than what this room provides. CHAPTER ONE – THE LOCH The tall woman stood at the casement, leaning against a roughly hewn oak writing desk to steady herself against the weakness that had accompanied the loss of her child. She recalled with wry amusement a time when she had gazed out at the Loch and found it charming, when the Loch was one of her favorite retreats. She must have been influenced by the sweet May wine she consumed at suppers hosted by the laird and his wife, washing the pleasant taste of the roasted starlings her Merlin falcon had slain that morning and delivered to her gauntleted hand. Had she known her future, she would have set him free. The thought brought a brief reprieve from the gloom, but it swiftly passed away. Perhaps she would have wrung its neck instead, she confessed as she turned to see whose rustling skirts had approached from behind. It was Jane Kennedy, her finely arched brows so creased by worry that they nearly met over the bridge of her narrow nose. “The laird plans to let you practice your hawking from this window,” Kennedy offered to assuage the gloom, but it did not have the desired effect. “Just as they offer to appease the absence of my confessor with an occasional visit from Knox, or grant me relief from the loss of the child I carried by permitting me to cuddle the newborn of my jailor’s wife. Spare me news of such gentle acts of kindness, Jane.” It was a mild reprimand, but it sent the lady retreating to her embroidery. The queen turned from the window. She felt a nagging pull in her abdomen. Like the tingling in her breasts, she had thought it a vestige of the miscarriage, but now she was less certain. The pull grew into a spasm, and the queen dropped her hands to her belly. In a moment the sensation passed, but the queen moved to the only cushioned chair in the chamber and sat. She summoned Seaton from the anteroom where Seton had been employed in sorting a trunk of garments that she had brought from Seton Castle. She hunted for gowns of her own that might fit the queen if the hems were lowered an inch or two. Since they were children, she was the only one of the queen’s attendants who approached her height. “Leave that, Seton,” the queen called. “We wish to speak to you.” The queen turned to Jane, who was startled and missed a stitch. “Privately, Jane, s’il vous plait,” she commanded, as if privacy were possible in the small chambers assigned her at the loch. The girl dutifully withdrew to the alcove and busied herself, as Seton brushed past and knelt to sit upon a pillow near Marie Stuart’s feet. “Do not sit, Seton. Help me stand, and guide me to the roof. I need fresher air than what this room provides. “It is nasty outside, Madame,” Seton remarked. “It is nasty everywhere on this cursed island, Seton. Grab us each some plaid to wrap around our shoulders. I have survived worse than cold.” The queen waited for Seton to do her bidding, then allowed the lady to guide her through the alcove. Seton addressed the attendant ladies appointed by the Douglases to serve and spy upon her mistress, announcing that she was taking the queen to the roof for air. Every slightest movement by the queen required explanation. The queen rankled at the imposition, but because she had learned to manipulate her guards, she smiled with false warmth and the ladies yielded. Another act of gentle kindness, she thought as Seton guided her to the balustrade, a firm hand placed beneath her elbow. Seton adjusted the plaid wrap high on the queen’s shoulder, to protect her from the brutal wind. “I do not much care for this, Madame. You should be resting.” The queen sighed. “I will rest soon enough, Seton. Now I need to talk, and you need to listen. Place your back against the posts and smile. Do not let your face betray my words. If anyone of the others, even Jane or Marie Courcelles approaches, greet them aloud so I will know we are not alone. What I have to say is for your ears and your ears only.” Seton nodded. The nod did not satisfy the Queen of Scots. “You must promise,” she insisted. She had been exacting promises from Seton since they were five years old and hiding at Inchmahone from the King of England’s armies. When they were adolescents, she manipulated her into taking an oath of chastity. She was the only one of the queen’s conscripted playmates known as the Four Maries who took the promise seriously. Nevertheless, the queen was taking no chances. “Of course, Madame.” Still the queen was not appeased. “Do not be put off by my demands, sister. When you hear what I have to tell you, you will understand.” “I swear to it on the grave of my mother.” Seton positioned herself as requested and waited for the queen to speak. When words came they were spoken with deliberation. “There is a quickening in my womb.” Seton began to protest, but the queen’s eyes sparked fire . “Stand silent, Seton. Keep your doubts to yourself.” She knew what her old friend had been about to say: The womb is contracting after the loss of the fetus that had been carried away by Margaret Douglas’s henchwoman and buried in the sand along the edge of the Loch: The quickening she felt is only the old twitch in her side that had plagued her since puberty or a recurrence of the phantom pregnancy she had experienced when she was married to poor feeble Francois, just like the spasms that had prompted poor, desperate Mary Tudor to stitch tunics and announce to her absentee husband that she carried his heir. “This is no fantasy, Seton. As ironic as it seems, the falsehood that was spread to explain the thickness of my middle, the myth that we constructed to blame my girth on twins seems to have been the truth. There is a live child in by womb.” The queen watched Seton struggling to stay silent. She backed away from the rail so she could look Seton in the eyes. ‘Do not question it, Seton. Think on it. We have circumstances in our favor. No one here will expect me to regain my figure this soon after the miscarriage. Remember our old friend Marie Beaton, who was stout for more than a year. We must fool the others, even Jane and Marie for as long as we are able. If I am able to keep this child alive, we will have until the leaves turn. I will pretend to eat to console myself. You will conceal the scraps and feed them to the dogs. I would cause myself to vomit out my stomach, but the strain would endanger the bairn. But when my time draws near, we must have some way of getting me through the birthing without my enemies knowing. If you have any ideas, dear friend, you are now free to speak them out.” Seton stood silent, her troubles visible on her gaunt, unhappy face. She rose and lowered her shoulders in frustration. “We must have help,” she said. The queen’s eyes ignited with rekindled fire. “We cannot-- must not--trust anyone, Seton.” Her childhood conscripted playmate would not be dissuaded. “With due respect, Madame, there is one.” The queen settled. “You speak of Geordie.” “Aye, Madame. I speak of Sir George.” The queen thought better of it, until Seton contorted her face into a death mask. It was Seton’s only manner of expressing anger, easily recognized by Marie Stuart, who had first seen it on the face of a fellow five-year-old when they were fleeing to France from Scotland aboard a French ship, and Marie was chastising her for her seasickness. She had seen it when she caused Seton to reject the advances of her cousin Andrew, nephew of the murdered Bishop of Saint Andrews. “Do not think, Madame, that the vows I took as a child conferred innocence in all things. I have looked upon a man with love light in my eyes, and I have seen it returned. I know what I see when George Douglas looks upon you, and it is not pity. He would die for you.” Marie Stuart relaxed “Do you hate me for the sacrifices you have made to stay by my side all of these years, bonne souer?” Seton reached over and adjusted the queen’s wrap. It had fallen from her shoulders and was flapping in the wind. “I am not so different from the lad you call Pretty Geordie, Majesty. What I have sacrificed for you has been out of love, not fear nor even duty, and it never brought me to hate you, even when we were children and you were sometimes cruel. What has befallen you this past year stabs at my heart. Yes, Mistress. George will help you. He will defy his mother and his brothers, and he will die in the doing if that is God’s will.” The Queen of Scots let her lifelong friend lead her back inside. Seton called a guard who brought wood for a fire. The fire brought warmth, but no solace. “It is nasty outside, Madame,” Seton remarked. “It is nasty everywhere on this cursed island, Seton. Grab us each some plaid to wrap around our shoulders. I have survived worse than cold.” The queen waited for Seton to do her bidding, then allowed the lady to guide her through the alcove. Seton addressed the attendant ladies appointed by the Douglases to serve and spy upon her mistress, announcing that she was taking the queen to the roof for air. Every slightest movement by the queen required explanation. The queen rankled at the imposition, but because she had learned to manipulate her guards, she smiled with false warmth and the ladies yielded. Another act of gentle kindness, she thought as Seton guided her to the balustrade, a firm hand placed beneath her elbow. Seton adjusted the plaid wrap high on the queen’s shoulder, to protect her from the brutal wind. “I do not much care for this, Madame. You should be resting.” The queen sighed. “I will rest soon enough, Seton. Now I need to talk, and you need to listen. Place your back against the posts and smile. Do not let your face betray my words. If anyone of the others, even Jane or Marie Courcelles approaches, greet them aloud so I will know we are not alone. What I have to say is for your ears and your ears only.” Seton nodded. The nod did not satisfy the Queen of Scots. “You must promise,” she insisted. She had been exacting promises from Seton since they were five years old and hiding at Inchmahone from the King of England’s armies. When they were adolescents, she manipulated her into taking an oath of chastity. She was the only one of the queen’s conscripted playmates known as the Four Maries who took the promise seriously. Nevertheless, the queen was taking no chances. “Of course, Madame.” Still the queen was not appeased. “Do not be put off by my demands, sister. When you hear what I have to tell you, you will understand.” “I swear to it on the grave of my mother.” Seton positioned herself as requested and waited for the queen to speak. When words came they were spoken with deliberation. “There is a quickening in my womb.” Seton began to protest, but the queen’s eyes sparked fire . “Stand silent, Seton. Keep your doubts to yourself.” She knew what her old friend had been about to say: The womb is contracting after the loss of the fetus that had been carried away by Margaret Douglas’s henchwoman and buried in the sand along the edge of the Loch: The quickening she felt is only the old twitch in her side that had plagued her since puberty or a recurrence of the phantom pregnancy she had experienced when she was married to poor feeble Francois, just like the spasms that had prompted poor, desperate Mary Tudor to stitch tunics and announce to her absentee husband that she carried his heir. “This is no fantasy, Seton. As ironic as it seems, the falsehood that was spread to explain the thickness of my middle, the myth that we constructed to blame my girth on twins seems to have been the truth. There is a live child in by womb.” The queen watched Seton struggling to stay silent. She backed away from the rail so she could look Seton in the eyes. ‘Do not question it, Seton. Think on it. We have circumstances in our favor. No one here will expect me to regain my figure this soon after the miscarriage. Remember our old friend Marie Beaton, who was stout for more than a year. We must fool the others, even Jane and Marie for as long as we are able. If I am able to keep this child alive, we will have until the leaves turn. I will pretend to eat to console myself. You will conceal the scraps and feed them to the dogs. I would cause myself to vomit out my stomach, but the strain would endanger the bairn. But when my time draws near, we must have some way of getting me through the birthing without my enemies knowing. If you have any ideas, dear friend, you are now free to speak them out.” Seton stood silent, her troubles visible on her gaunt, unhappy face. She rose and lowered her shoulders in frustration. “We must have help,” she said. The queen’s eyes ignited with rekindled fire. “We cannot-- must not--trust anyone, Seton.” Her childhood conscripted playmate would not be dissuaded. “With due respect, Madame, there is one.” The queen settled. “You speak of Geordie.” “Aye, Madame. I speak of Sir George.” The queen thought better of it, until Seton contorted her face into a death mask. It was Seton’s only manner of expressing anger, easily recognized by Marie Stuart, who had first seen it on the face of a fellow five-year-old when they were fleeing to France from Scotland aboard a French ship, and Marie was chastising her for her seasickness. She had seen it when she caused Seton to reject the advances of her cousin Andrew, nephew of the murdered Bishop of Saint Andrews. “Do not think, Madame, that the vows I took as a child conferred innocence in all things. I have looked upon a man with love light in my eyes, and I have seen it returned. I know what I see when George Douglas looks upon you, and it is not pity. He would die for you.” Marie Stuart relaxed “Do you hate me for the sacrifices you have made to stay by my side all of these years, bonne souer?” Seton reached over and adjusted the queen’s wrap. It had fallen from her shoulders and was flapping in the wind. “I am not so different from the lad you call Pretty Geordie, Majesty. What I have sacrificed for you has been out of love, not fear nor even duty, and it never brought me to hate you, even when we were children and you were sometimes cruel. What has befallen you this past year stabs at my heart. Yes, Mistress. George will help you. He will defy his mother and his brothers, and he will die in the doing if that is God’s will.” The Queen of Scots let her lifelong friend lead her back inside. Seton called a guard who brought wood for a fire. The fire brought warmth, but no solace.