by Donald Smith
‘Be quiet, young man. When she was seated in the chair the warrants were read. She refused the Dean’s prayers and implored the mercy of Heaven. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death.’
Lady Margaret and I crossed ourselves but refrained from adding Amen.
‘Refusing help, she took off such parts of her attire as might obstruct the deadly blow. Then commanding us to be silent, she laid her head on the block.’
‘Please, Sister.’ But Mary Seton’s voice was getting stronger.
‘It took three blows to sever the head from her neck. Then the executioner held up her head and the Dean cried, “So perish Queen Elizabeth’s foes.” But none could say Amen.’
She looked at us reproachfully.
‘The head fell to the ground, leaving Her Majesty’s best wig in the executioner’s grasp.’ She paused. ‘Is that what you need to know?’
‘Yes, thank you, Sister Mary, I am moved by your testimony. You have been of great assistance to me. I am truly obliged.’
There was nothing new to be gleaned from Mary Seton. She was trapped in the past.
‘You want to tell the truth?’ Two dark blue eyes were now fixed on mine. ‘And end all the lies?’
The sister’s head lowered, and she appeared to struggle with the folds of her habit.
‘Let me help you, Sister,’ the Abbess said, moving towards her. But Mary Seton waved her away, and with another tug she pulled out a cloth bundle, bound in soiled ribbon. She lifted the package onto the table.
‘Take this.’ She fell back in the chair exhausted.
Lady Margaret stared at the bundle in surprise.
‘What is it?’ I asked. But her eyes had clouded over once again. Without further delay, Reverend Mother raised the old woman bodily in her arms and half carried her out of the room.
Returning a few minutes later, she told me that the sister was sleeping quietly. She appeared to have suffered no ill effects. Mary Seton seemed more at peace, free from the anxieties that often troubled her rest.
‘I shall leave you to your studies, Master Maitland.’ Lady Margaret made no direct reference to the bundle which still lay between us, untouched. ‘Please give my warmest regards to your mother when you next write, and give her our news.’
I assured her that I would. She started to leave, then hesitated for a moment.
‘Fleming was first among the Marys. I admired her greatly. Please tell your mother she is always in my prayers and in my heart.’
Then she was gone.
As soon as I was shown to my room, I unwrapped the bundle with unsteady fingers, and laid out its contents on the table. There were letters, and a series of small bound volumes like journals or day books. Everything had been tightly packed. At a glance I could see four or five different hands and some headings that had been written by children. I could not bring myself to begin reading.
My mother had been Queen Mary’s chief lady-in-waiting, but as I grew up she was reluctant to speak about the tragedies that marred her life. My father died before I could speak or listen. But as I looked at these papers, I felt on the verge of a lost world, which in some strange sense, was a part of me that remained hidden, unexplored.
I drew my chair nearer to the fire, picked up each volume in turn, and gently teased open pages that had been tightly pressed for so long. With the table on my right hand and a basket of logs on my left, a long night’s vigil commenced.
Before leaving Rheims the next morning, I made a reverence at the tomb of Queen Mary’s mother in the Abbey Church. As I lit a candle to the blessed memory of Marie de Guise, I pledged to publish her daughter’s story, however incomplete, however shocking or intimate the matter, so that her true self might at last stand clear for all to see. In God’s mercy, Queen Mary’s own mortal relics may yet come to rest here in Rheims beside her mother, reunited in this holy place of peace.
The Guest Mistress bade me farewell at the Abbey gates, I turned back towards Paris with my precious burden.
Learning to Dance
France, 1548–1559
James Maitland
THE READER HAS a right to know something of his guide and author. I left Scotland as a young man, because of my Catholic faith, and went into exile in Europe. While my family, the Maitlands of Lethington, were conforming to a new political order, something in my nature stubbornly identified with an older family tradition. Queen Mary had recently been executed in England and my mother had remarried. I was dissatisfied with the condition of my native land.
I conceived the idea of telling the story of my father’s life by writing a chronicle of those times. I had not known him when I was a child which made me more curious. Though Protestant by conviction, William Maitland urged tolerance, upheld royal government, and remained loyal to Queen Mary.
To aid me in my task, I had my father’s state and private papers, which he smuggled out of Edinburgh Castle before his death. With these were the fragmented memoirs of his comrade Sir William Kirkcaldy, which seem to belong to that gallant soldier’s last months. I have the testimony of my own mother, Mary Fleming, who was chief lady-in-waiting to the Queen throughout her reign, and the strange account of Elizabeth Hepburn which was recorded in Haddington Convent.
Travelling in Europe, I have gathered a narrative supposedly dictated by the Earl of Bothwell before he succumbed to madness and disease in prison, and a manuscript of John Knox’s ‘History’, edited by his Secretary Bannatyne, which is in open circulation. Subsequently I have obtained, from a most reliable source, fresh documents, some in the Queen’s own hand and some the private diaries of her ladies, the four Marys.
I confess, however, that this endeavour has not progressed according to my first plan. My father’s purpose and actions have proved harder to discern than I had expected, for in his own writings he conceals as much as he reveals. I have found that we are divided by religion, even in death. Nevertheless, I believe that these pages will vindicate his cause.
What began as a hard task, cutting a straight path through the maze, appeared at points almost impossible. Sometimes as I read, these documents spoke directly to my heart: I was caught up in the emotion of the moment and enjoyed a poet’s freedom. In other parts my mind questioned what was before my eyes, wishing to qualify or correct. Truth comes in many forms so I have decided to lay them all out, that everyone may judge for themselves.
Like so many others, William Maitland lived in the shadow cast by Mary Stewart. She is the true north to which every lodestone points. No one is unaffected by her life, yet the Queen’s testimony remains hidden. Only the stubborn loyalty of Mary Seton, the Queen’s last Mary, has enabled her voice to be finally heard.
In pursuing this work, however imperfect, I have found my own vocation after many wandering years in exile. For unveiling truths inconvenient to those who fashion worldly histories in their own image, I expect no praise or reward. But I can be patient since what we have seen darkly in a mirror will eventually be known face to face. For now our sight is imperfect and I must retrace my steps from the conclusion of the story to its beginning, for all the Marys.
Day Book of the Marys
He may be God, with a big beard. Long and grey in a white robe. His eyes smile.
Father Gardener. And this is our garden. He planted little bushes for our wall.
To make it safe. But we plant the flowers.
Ring a ring a roses
A pouchie fou o posies
Atishoo! Atishoo!
We all fall doun.
You must fall down. No, no. I won’t fall. For I am the Queen.
Everyone is quiet. We were wondering.
Yes, this is my island. I am Queen here and my boat will come for us. They will row across for us again. I don’t know when. We may live here for evermore. Don’t cry, because we shall all still be friends. You be mother, Fleming, and give us bread to sop our broth.
Then we must be good and do our lessons.
C
lever maids letters learn, foolish girls careless turn.
The Marys are my ladies. Beaton is clever, but Livingston loyal. Fleming, my cousin, must be first always. Seton, well Seton may bring my rosary, since she knows so many prayers from home.
But this is home now, just for a time as we are safe here.
Who must we be safe from? Our old enemy.
I do hope Maman will come to see me.
The sun is shining later so we go to see our flowers instead. Rosemary and Marigold, tall Lupin and blue Lavender. All in rows like our soldiers. Here comes Father Gardener with his nodding head. Run, quick, to the trees and grasses. We can hide. Find daisies, buttercups and Bride’s gold dandelion for our hair.
Mary, Mary, quite contrary
How does your garden grow?
With bluebells and tortoise shells
With red rosehips and fairy lips
With honey sips and buttercups
With hairy thistles and maids’ kisses
No, I won’t, I won’t. You be it. You won’t, you won’t.
But Fleming will decide. Fleming is fair, Fleming is just, Fleming is old, her birthday comes first. You be mother, Fleming. Mary.
We kneel in a row to say Hail Mary, Our Father, our Mothers. I see her bending down to kiss me. Lovely lady, come low to touch me, as you are so high. Your face soft on my fingers. Breath on my lips. I was a baby in her arms like Jesu.
Her picture is in the great church.
Sweet little boy, but we little girls have no mothers here.
Hands clasped, head bowed. No wriggle or giggle. I must show them how. Monks and servants.
One, two, three
Holy Trinity
God the Father, Spirit, Son
Holy Mary, prayers be done
I am not what they think. Messengers come, whisper and open letters, look at me. We are not frightened, though we are alone, on my island. I will not be theirs.
The boat comes. And my mother sails with her. She is here with me, and all my Marys. We are joyful, as she is a grown up Queen with lovely dresses. And I am a pretending Queen. Now we Queens play together, not apart.
We are going to my castle at Dumbarton where a great ship will come and carry us over the ocean
Big ship, tall ship, Galleon fine
Over the seas, with gold and wine
Are you coming with us, Maman? Will I go with you?
Never beg or plead, little Marie, for it is not proper. Propre, mine own.
We are all going to my castle, where the big boat will come.
Winds blow and rains fall, so we will chance all. But we are not on our own, since all the mothers have come. All the Marys’ mothers, fine ladies four, and Marie five, bees come to their hive.
They take us to the walls to look out onto the river running, and the green banks flowing, and the rain falling, and the wind blowing. They take us to the boat with white sails flying.
This is not our lovely lake, but a little boat in big waves. Salt sea on my lips. Blow wind blow. For we will not leave ourselves behind.
White handkerchiefs waving on the shore.
Au revoir, Scotland.
She will come to visit soon.
Below decks on the big ship we stay. Darkness rolls, and heaves. The old enemy may come so we must learn our lessons and be good girls, playing quiet games.
Sea-sick, sea-sick,
Jelly legs, and dizzy heads.
Babies below, ladies above,
Roll the waves, in search of your love.
Fleming
Dear Mother, we are going safely to France. The boat is very big. I tuck Her Majesty up in bed. When the Marys are all in bed, I blow out the light and think about you, and about Papa who has gone away. I miss my brother very much. I am pleased that you are coming to France in the other ship. But I will look after all the little ones until you come. I love you very much, Mary Fleming.
Beaton
Dear Mother, we are going to France. The waves are very big so I curl up small in bed. I have read all my primer and know French very well. In France I will be able to speak in my French. But I expect we will learn Latin too. When I see Uncle Cardinal I will give him your love. I hope you and Papa and all my sisters are well too. I think about you every night, your loving daughter, Mary Beaton.
Livingston
Dear Mother, we are going brave to France. The boat is very big and sea wild. I sleep beside Marie every night to keep her safe. English may come but no harm. The waves are rolling. She goes up on deck and I would like to go with her. But I have to sick. I love you and Papa very much, but I do not cry in bed. I am your big girl now, Mary Livingston.
Seton
Dear Mother, we are going over the sea to France. Please do not be afraid. I pray every night for my Queen and all the Marys. I remember what you told me about our Holy Mother. Marie is sometimes naughty but we forgive her. Please remember me in your prayers. God bless you and Papa, with all my love, Mary Seton.
Mary
Dear Maman, we are very tired since there is not enough to do in the big ship. I like the wind and big waves. I get cross sometimes when I cannot go up on the deck. I still do my lessons. I hope it will be better in France, for we need our garden again to play. Please tell God to visit me in France, and come soon, as I do not wish to be alone. I and all the Marys send their love. La Reine Marie.
***
Beaton
A book of games, plays and notices, written at the Court by four ladies in waiting and their Queen.
Mary
It is a Folio, which is a Queen’s book. Grannie Bourbon has her household book, and I have a household now.
Fleming
But this is different. It belongs to the children. No adult will ever be allowed to read this book. By Mary’s command.
Livingston
Only those we allow will read this folio, or write in it. They are Francis, Elizabeth, the four Marys, Claude, and little Louis if he is not sick.
Mary
Only those I permit will read this book. They are Francis, Elizabeth, Charles, little Louis, Fleming, Livingston, Beaton and Seton. I shall sign this, Mary of Scots, for though Francis will be a king he is not one yet.
Beaton
All others are forbidden. It is secret to us.
Seton
Livingston has shoulder length chestnut hair. I bind this into tresses and wind it into a crown when we are at court, to sit under her linen veil. Often she likes the tresses to fly free, especially when riding, and hunting when she is permitted. Beaton is blond and very curly by nature. I trim and crop her curls which never lie down.
Fleming is brunette and her hair falls in delicate waves round her warm colour. I tie her hair with ribbons to train it back round her ears and neck. I love Fleming because she is so kind. My own hair is dark and quite dull so I cut it short and tuck it under my bonnet. I admit that this bonnet has river pearls sewn into its hem, which makes my dark hair look better.
Mary Stewart’s hair is thick and auburn, almost red like a Highlander. When she lets it fall down over her shoulders she seems a grown woman, not a girl, but that is only in her bedchamber. I plait the tresses into coils which I wind round her high brow. Mary is beautiful, and she likes to look in the mirror as I pile up her abundant hair. Sometimes she leaves off her headdress and puts a diamond tiara on top of her auburn crown, in the bedchamber.
Mary
A Queen must confess more than a commoner or even a courtier. Grannie Bourbon takes me every day to the priest. We receive Holy Communion. But I like it best when we kneel together, Grannie Annette and I, before the Virgin. She knows how hard it is when your mother is far away. We pray for Maman far away in Scotland, and Uncle Francis and Uncle Charles and all the Guise. I cannot remember much about Scotland except for flowers in my garden. Then Grannie prays for lots of people I do not know. Many of them are in Heaven like Grandpa Guise, or like King James my father, whom I do not know except in a picture. He has red hair too.
Last of all we say our rosary. Holy Mary, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
Beaton
Amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis, amant. We are all learning French but also Latin. The teacher says that if we do well at Latin then we can begin Italian. This is France but everyone wants to be Italian in clothes and houses and drawing pictures. The Pope is Italian. I am not sure if the Holy Father is in fashion here or not. Queen Catherine Medici is the Pope’s niece, as the Medici are in charge of everything in Italy. I like poetry and speeches but not histories even when they are in Latin. French poems are very good and Queen Mary has her own poet Monsieur Ronsard. Everyone thinks I am very clever but not, of course, as clever as the Queen of Scots. She is very fast at lessons and scolds all the children when they are slow. Especially Francis and little Louis, before he became ill and died. Boys are supposed to be more clever than girls so clever girls should pretend. Mary does not like pretending. She is to give a speech to the King and all the Court.
My uncle was Cardinal and Lord Chancellor of Scotland till the rebels killed him. I think he was a bishop in France too. Is that why I have to live here? Queen Mary’s uncle is a cardinal as well, so that makes us good friends of the Church. Seton prays for us all every day. Mary Stewart, our Queen, says that in Scripture there are only three Marys but she has four.
Mary
I cannot write in our book today because I am too sad writing to Maman in Scotland. It is very far away. They say it is cold in Scotland but sometimes it is cold in France as well.
Livingston
Château means castle but in Scotland châteaux are smaller. Here the castles in which we stay are palaces. Except for Fontainebleau which is my favourite place to stay. We have many horses there and are allowed to go riding and sometimes hunting in the forest. At Callendar when I was wee, you could ride out of the castle and up onto the moors and forests. It was called Slamannan which is a Scots word. I am writing it down here so that I always remember names from my home. Beaton is a good rider as well as me, but Mary Stewart is best. On a horse she has no fear and would gallop ahead through the trees if the men did not hold her reins. When we are on horseback we are free, but when we are inside our palaces there are rules for everything we do, unless we hide.
