“Surprisingly good. They weren’t bothered for centuries maybe. They aren’t overly fragile, though we’re treating them as if they are. Do you want me to give you a secret look one of these days?”
“Only if it won’t get you in trouble.” I really hoped it wouldn’t get him in trouble.
“I’ll let you know,” he said. But then he fell into thought.
“What?” I asked a long moment later. “What’s on your mind?”
“Mary was young when Queen Elizabeth had her executed. Only forty-four.”
“Okay.”
“Well, and don’t share this opinion with others because some Scottish people won’t like it. Admittedly, my opinion is also jaded by time and how things have changed over the centuries, but … on one hand, Mary was a brilliant queen and did more than most would have when being born into her circumstances and position. She was strong where others might have weakened. She never let go of the idea that she was the rightful queen of England, well, not publicly at least. But there was one area where she wasn’t the brightest of bulbs. If Mary had just given up her Catholicism and even pretended to be Protestant earlier than it seemed she was going to attempt to do, I do think there was a chance her life might have been easier, probably longer.”
“She might have become the rightful queen of England too?”
Joshua shook his head. “I don’t know if it would have gone that far, but she might have lived longer, perhaps not have been imprisoned for so much of her life. Ultimately and ‘officially,’ Mary was put to death because she was accused of conspiring to assassinate Queen Elizabeth. The letters used as evidence were probably forged.”
“Letters?”
“Yes, the Casket Letters, they are called, because they were discovered in a box that looked like a casket.”
“Like the Burgess Tickets?” I said, guessing that Joshua would know what I was talking about.
“Ah, you know about the Burgess Tickets.” He smiled. “No, the Freedom Caskets were smaller, I believe. Casket-like things just make everything more interesting maybe. Anyway, the eight letters and sonnets were allegedly written by Mary to her third husband, the Earl of Bothwell. It was thought that Bothwell was responsible for the murder of Mary’s second husband, Darnley. In them, Mary commits treason toward Elizabeth as well as encourages Bothwell to hurry up and kill Darnley. To the end, Mary denied writing them.”
“Where are the letters?”
“Copies are reproduced online and such, but the originals are lost to time, I’m afraid, probably destroyed by someone who didn’t want it proven that Mary didn’t write them.”
“Many people conspired against her?”
“Yes, including many that she trusted.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Mary was fierce. I wouldn’t have wanted her to be less fierce, just maybe more … self-preserving.”
I nodded. “I get what you’re saying. If the letters were forged, back then there was no reliable way to validate or invalidate them other than by sight. Handwriting analysis didn’t exist, at least in its current form.” I thought about when Rosie and I, on the internet via my cell phone, found an old letter Mary had written. She’d signed her name “Marie” and the M had been noticeable. It had taken us only seconds.
“Oh, I’m sure it was an awful time to live, but not as awful for royalty, even for a queen who had to be locked in a castle or two.”
“Do you think she killed her second husband? Mary, Queen of Scots, I mean? Conspired to at least?” I said.
Joshua fell into thought again, but I didn’t think it was because he was searching for an answer, I suspected it was because he had to organize all the facts in his mind about the subject matter. His mind overflowed with all manner of things.
“Lord Darnley, Henry, was not a good man, but no, I don’t think she played any part in his murder. You do know she was also, for a time, queen consort of France, don’t you?”
“When she was younger?”
“Yes. Her father was the king of Scotland, but he died of some such thing I’m sure we could take care of easily nowadays, and she ascended to the throne when she was only six days old. A deal was made that she would marry a future king of France, and she was sent off to the land of truffles and baguettes when she was five or so. Her mother stayed in Scotland and served as one of her regent rulers. One of her father’s illegitimate sons later acted as regent for Mary’s son too. Moray.” He paused and I heard the ominous tone when he said the name. “But Moray wasn’t on Mary’s side. I do think he and his Protestant leanings caused problems and hastened Mary’s execution. He might have even been somehow involved in the Casket Letters. Anyway, regarding France, she married the Dauphin of France, Francis, when they were young, fifteen and sixteen, I believe. He was small and appeared unhealthy next to her beauty, unusual height, and robust health, but from what I’ve read they got along splendidly, enjoyed each other’s company. Nevertheless, just over a year and a half or so into the marriage, the Dauphin died of a middle ear infection that turned ugly, leaving Mary grief stricken. Nine months later, she returned to Scotland. She’d been in France since she was a child, keep that in mind. France was all about Catholicism, so Mary was too. She spoke French most of the time, but she could also speak English and Scots. I think what I’m trying to say is that she was groomed and manipulated, but no matter how smart she was, she was never given the tools to fight fairly, or make many of her own decisions early on.”
I nodded. “But some thought she was the rightful heir to the throne of England? How would that have worked?”
Joshua sighed. “Okay. Henry VIII was such a force. A giant pain in the arse for many, but a strong, strong leader. You are probably aware he had many wives?”
“Of course.”
“Very good. Mary Tudor—this is a whole different Mary than the Marys we’ve been talking about. Mary Tudor was the only child of Henry’s first wife, Catherine of Aragon, to survive until adulthood, and was the queen of England for five years after her younger half brother died. She was all for Catholicism, and tried to reverse her father’s reformations, which were definitely more Protestant.” Joshua sighed. “Mary Tudor only reigned for five years, though, before she died. Who was to be the next ruler? Her only surviving sibling at the time was Elizabeth I, who was, indeed, the daughter of Henry VIII, but also of his second wife, Anne Boleyn; a marriage that was annulled—and that’s the sticking point, right there. Here also was Mary Stuart—Mary, Queen of Scots—she was a surviving legitimate descendant of Henry VII, the first monarch of the House of Tudor. It seemed to some that Mary should have been the queen because she was a legitimate descendant.”
“The ‘legitimacy’ was used, and then it became a battle of two religions?”
“Well, in a way, yes. The Catholics thought Mary should be the queen of England, the Protestants thought Elizabeth I was right where she should be, on the throne. Much blood was shed because of the differences.”
“Elizabeth I lived and ruled a long time, right?”
“Oh, yes, and she was quite the queen too. It’s hard to know if she ever regretted what she did to Mary, but if she believed Mary was out to kill her, she did what she thought she should.”
“You don’t believe it though, that Elizabeth really thought Mary wanted to kill her? I can hear it in your voice.”
Joshua shook his head. “Impossible to know, but, no, I think it was all a setup, and I’m on Mary’s side of that one.”
“It was all so different then. Different things were important.”
“Correct,” Joshua said.
Last night, after Tom and I had gotten home from dinner, I looked closely at some of the online pictures of the queen, and the similarity was undeniable. Weirdly, though, I saw it more with Mary than with me. Mary and I looked alike but I’d created some sort of distance between the queen and me.
“Do you know anything about a crown-shaped birthmark?” I asked.
“What?” Jo
shua laughed.
“Did Mary, Queen of Scots, have one?”
“Gosh, not that I’m aware of. That’s a wonderful idea though, that all royalty be marked with a special birthmark. I’ve read such fictional stories before.”
“I think Mary has too. She has one and thinks that’s proof that she’d reincarnated.”
Joshua half-smiled, half-rolled his eyes.
I continued, “I wonder what would prove it though. Is there something she could know that would prove she was once Mary, Queen of Scots?”
“That sounds like an impossible thing.”
“I suppose so.”
“You are disappointed.”
“Well, it would be kind of awesome, wouldn’t it? To have her here with us? Not that she’d get a second chance to rule England or anything, but having insight into those days would be kind of cool. She might have memories, but right now I don’t feel like I can believe a word she says. If I could know…”
“Our time-travel games!”
Joshua and I often wished we could travel back in time, to all times, and just stay for a few minutes. Both of us were too happy with the technology of the present day to want to stay away for long.
“Yes, something like that,” I said.
“How else can I help find the proof? Can I break in somewhere, spy on someone?” Joshua asked. “I’m always up for an adventure.”
“No, I’ll never ask you to do something like that again.” I still felt guilty about asking his help for something sneaky I’d had up my sleeve a while back.
“That’s a shame.”
We finished breakfast and made a plan for me to come over and see one of the museum’s newest displays, as well as hopefully a time when he could sneak me a look at the queen’s handwritten notes.
We said goodbye and I watched him walk away toward the museum. He’d grown up so much in the last year. A sense of sisterly pride washed over me. I hadn’t learned anything that might help me with Mary Stewart, but it didn’t hurt to be armed with the information, just in case. Just in case of what, I wasn’t sure, but still … besides, time with Joshua was always fun.
I checked my phone again. No calls at all. I took off for another museum, one I hadn’t been to yet, but one I’d been wanting to see since close to the first moment I’d arrived in Scotland.
SEVENTEEN
The Writers’ Museum was located off the Royal Mile on Lady Stair’s Close, an alleyway named after another Elizabeth, the Lady of Stair, the widow of John Dalrymple, the first Earl of Stair. A museum dedicated to Scotland’s literary heroes: Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott, and Robert Lewis Stevenson, I knew it would be a wonderful place.
Also, maybe, for me a noisy place. I’d read lots of Burns, Scott, and Stevenson. Their words were in my head and might all want to talk at once.
And not just inside the museum, but the courtyard outside it as well. Of course, I’d heard about Makers’ Court, the place with paving stones inscribed with literary quotes. I’d managed to get my voices under control in the bookshop, but I fully expected them to pipe up once I entered the courtyard.
But when I did enter it, all was quiet. At least the bookish voices were quiet. I could hear the faint noises of traffic, both from vehicles and pedestrians’ voices on the Royal Mile, but I was able to read some of the quotes, unbothered.
Violet Jacob had said, There’s muckle lyin yont the Tay that Mair to me nor life.
I shook my head at the Scots. I’d need Elias, Aggie, Rosie, or maybe Hamlet for that one.
But Robert Henryson had also been quoted in Scots. I could understand his better, Blissed be the sempill lyfe withoutin dreid.
“True that, Robert,” I said aloud. “True that.”
I read as I made my way to the front door, pleased I’d been able to keep my intuition at bay. It had been talking to me about things I thought were associated with queens, but maybe there was nothing here to learn. That might be disappointing, after all.
I pulled the door and went through.
Once inside I closed my eyes and stood still. I listened so hard I could feel the strain. There were no voices. Until there was one.
“May I help you?” it said.
My eyes sprung open. “Oh, hello, yes, I’m … do I need to purchase a ticket?”
The woman reminded me of the current Queen of England, Queen Elizabeth II. Topped off with perfectly styled gray hair and eyes that twinkled happily behind proper glasses.
“You look so much like the current queen,” I said.
“I get that a lot, though she wouldnae be caught deed with my accent.” The woman winked. “Laila Brisem.” She extended her hand.
“Delaney Nichols.”
“Welcome. Ye’ve come a long way.”
“A year ago, I did. I’ve lived here since then.”
“Aye? A transplant. Come along and have a look around. Ye’ve picked a quiet time. No tickets. Donations are always welcome. See what we’re worth, leave what ye’d like.”
I did want to see the museum, but I had come to ask questions about Mary Stewart. I didn’t see how I could jump right in though. I’d look for the right moment.
Unfortunately, I was left to tour on my own, Laila telling me she’d meet up with me in a wee bit. I fell into my museum meander, but kept telling myself to step it up, move a little faster today.
I came upon a hand-carved chess set. It was as I stood there looking at it that I thought I might have finally heard a bookish voice.
Checkmate!
Or maybe that was a ghost. Probably just my imagination, I decided as I looked around.
I continued my meander to Robert Burns’s writing desk. I smiled as I took in its simplicity. A small desk with a green felt covered and angled lift top, there were no drawers or file cabinets, but only a place where Mr. Burns could place quill to parchment and create magnificent works of art.
I thought about my desk in the warehouse, having seen the likes of kings and queens. Oh, it was a beautiful piece of old furniture. Without warning, I became overwhelmed by the fortuitous adventures my life had seen over the last year. I sniffed and blinked away the flood of emotions. I hadn’t had one of those moments for a long time, but evidently they would still happen every once and a while.
I moved along as my attention was drawn to the wall above the desk. Inside a gold-rimmed frame, I’d finally come upon my first real Burgess Ticket, and it had belonged to Robert Burns.
“I’ll be,” I said quietly as I leaned forward for a closer look.
“What do ye think?” Laila came up behind me.
“Hello. This is a Burgess Ticket?”
“Aye. Do ye ken what that is?”
“I think so. It’s kind of like a business license.”
“Och. In a way. At one time, they meant verra much to the holder. A considerable asset. It allowed merchants and craftsmen to work in a burgh—this one is from 1787, Dumfries—but it also gave the holder certain rights, including the title of freeman and allowing their children to be educated in the local school or academy. They were a verra big deal.”
“I see,” I said.
It was a certificate covered in difficult to decipher calligraphy. It could have been mistaken for any sort of certificate I’d ever seen.
Laila continued, “This was an honorary ticket, but later Mr. Burns did reside in Dumfries.”
“So interesting.” I turned my attention back to Laila.
“Aye.”
“I love museums so much,” I said. “I have a friend at the history museum. He and I spend hours looking at exhibits there together.”
“I ken what ye mean.”
Seemed like a good enough time for some small lies. “I was just there last week and was approached by a woman who works here, maybe volunteers. That’s why I’m here today. She reminded me about this place. Anyway, she looks like me.” I looked at Laila.
“Aye, I thought I saw the resemblance, but I wasnae sure what tae say. Ye’ve met our Mary the
n? Mary Stewart. Did ye ken she thinks she was once Mary, Queen of Scots?”
“I do. Is she here today?”
“No,” Laila said sadly. “She’s had a tragedy.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
Laila sized me up, but only for a few seconds. “Did ye hear about the car being blown tae smithereens?”
“I did.”
“Terrifying.”
“Yes.”
“T’was her husband who was kil’t. Henry.”
“Oh, no!” I put my fingers to my mouth and was slightly ashamed by my act, but not enough to stop. “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry. Did you know him?”
Laila nodded. “I met him a time or two.”
“What was he like?” I asked sympathetically, still slightly ashamed of myself.
She shook her head. “I’m not sure I ken. We only had brief hellos. One time he smiled, the other time he’d come tae pick her up, I think he was impatient for Mary tae finish her day. He wanted tae go home.”
“I see.”
“I know he worked for the city of Edinburgh and I know he took his job verra seriously. Mary recently told me she was worrit about him, that he’d become … what was the word she used? ‘Obsessed,’ I think. Aye, he’d become obsessed with a task. She thought he was working too hard.”
“What was it?” There was that word again, “obsession.”
“I dinnae ken. I did try tae ask her, but she either ignored the question or didnae quite know what was happening. She was worrit though, I could tell. I wish I’d pushed more. Maybe that’s the reason he was kil’t. He was kil’t, ye ken. The papers are saying it was murder.”
“I’m sure the police will let us in on more as time goes on. They’ll figure it out,” I said. “Also, Mary mentioned she’d gotten in some trouble here at the museum?”
That lie and question were based on a brief moment at the dinner party. Mary had mentioned that she had been welcomed back to the museum after Dina had seemed surprised that she’d been allowed to go back. The conversation had moved onto other things, but it was a moment that had stuck out to me then, and later too as I’d tried to contemplate what it had meant.
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