For the first few months of 1566, though our roles are now different after Livingstone’s and then Beaton’s weddings, we four Maries have been at the Queen’s side as often as possible during her pregnancy. When the Court moved up from Holyrood to the security of Edinburgh Castle for her confinement, we were together constantly. In comparison to the luxurious Holyrood Palace one mile down the hill, the castle was cold and draughty. There were fewer wall hangings and tapestries at the castle, so any heat from the fireplace seemed to disappear into the bare stone walls. Also, perhaps because the castle was at the top of the hill, the windows always let in blasts of chilly air from the north. Only the Queen was allowed to wear ermine and so we Maries tried not to shiver as we all huddled around the royal bed, pulling the drapes around as we perched on the embroidered bedspread, gazing at her increasingly huge belly in wonder.
It was during these weeks that the Queen let us all know how much she values us.
After her marriage, Livingstone had been entrusted with looking after the Queen’s collection of jewellery. The rest of us accepted this as a fact, though Fleming mentioned to me one day that she was the one who ought to have been given this honour, since only she was a direct cousin of the Queen. But then when we heard what would happen should the Queen die, we complied with her every wish, as we always did with our Mistress. 13
Well, I certainly was happy with everything, although none of the jewellery pieces we were promised then, during those happy weeks spent together around the royal bed, were as splendid as the parure the Queen gave to me some ten years later, her gratitude for my long service and friendship.
It was about a month before she gave birth that she let us all know who would receive what, should she die in childbirth, something which filled her – and of course us – with such dread. We four Maries were to have many of the splendid possessions from her jewellery collection. I turned back some pages to remind myself what we were each promised.
Mary Fleming was to receive her favoured white enamelled necklace and the set of gold beads and chains. Mary Beaton would have three enamelled chains and an emerald necklace she had always admired. Mary Livingstone was to receive a pearl belt, some chains and a gold necklace. And as for me, surely the most loyal Marie, I was to have three gold enamelled brooches and some pearls, which I’d always adored and indeed had often worn before she went out for a soiree, to warm them up. The Queen could not possibly have to endure the feel of cold jewels around her delicate white neck. We were each to have one of her special ruby rings as keepsakes, whether she lived or died.
Indeed, I have worn mine on my thumb almost always, a constant reminder of the woman I served for so long, Queen Mary. Sometimes I ponder how strange it is that for the rest of my life, I have then served her namesake, the Virgin Mary.
The bed at the castle provided for her lying-in was magnificent: fringed in embroidered black velvet, it had curtains of blue velvet, lined in scarlet taffeta. The baby’s cradle was covered with 14embroidered Flemish cloth of cream and purple. The midwife wore a black velvet dress, created especially for the occasion, and the drapes and hangings in her lying-in chamber were hung all around with royal blue taffeta and silk. We four Maries giggled when we first saw the luxurious extravagance of the bed as we imagined what John Knox might say about the bright gaudy colours and textiles and how inappropriate they were for bringing a royal prince into the world.
The day her son arrived was momentous. She began her labour on the eighteenth of June and during those many hours of excruciating pain, all four of us, her Maries and best friends, told her repeatedly we wished the pangs of labour could be cast upon us. Let us endure the pain, we whispered, willing the agony upon ourselves. If only this were possible; anything to alleviate her distress and discomfort. But of course this was not to be.
What a terrible ordeal mothers must go through. The agony they have to endure is unbelievable. As I continued to cross myself, along with the other Maries, terrified at the prospect of catastrophe, of the fact she might not survive the trauma and pain, I assured myself once again that I’ll never put myself through this. The only one constant in my life, should the Queen die, would be God. I will never take any man into my life to cause this agony.
Finally, she gave birth on the nineteenth of June to a healthy and chubby baby boy whom she immediately called James, after her father, grandfather and indeed all her royal forebears. While the midwife was cleaning up the child, we helped wash and change the Queen. Dear God, what a lot of blood there was everywhere. Afterwards, she held the prince and gazed at his face, smiling dotingly as presumably only mothers can do, for the baby truly is 15 not bonny. He has tufts of black hair all over his bald head and his nose, even for a tiny infant, is long and pointed, not snubbed and pretty like the Queen’s. She sighed with a contented air, then announced that he was in need of feeding – surely this was the cause of his sudden bawling – and could the wet nurse come at once.
Later that evening, Lady Reres was still sitting in the corner, a soft, woollen stole enveloping both her massive breasts and the tiny, swaddled child. She had continued to feed the hungry child almost without a break as we all cooed over the baby and cosseted his mother, until we were all startled by a sudden boom as the full artillery was fired from the castle. The young prince did not stir one jot from the milky breast as we Maries rushed to the window and looked out to see the many bonfires blazing brightly on the surrounding hills.
“You should see all the fires, Your Majesty. All over your kingdom they are celebrating,” cried Mary Beaton, jumping up and down as she always does when she is excited. Really, she can be so childish. “You have brought such joy to everyone!” She gurgled with delight.
The Queen lifted her weary head from the pillow and propped herself onto an elbow as she tried to peer over towards the window.
“Perhaps not to my cousin Elizabeth in London,” she muttered. And I could not help but notice a sardonic smile on her lips.
Then she slumped back onto the bed and shut her eyes, exhausted and in need of a long, restorative sleep.