I stood at the window watching the tiny boat glide across the loch. I held my breath as long as possible, not daring to move till I saw it reach the shore. There, a man – presumably my brother – helped her out and over the reeds onto a waiting horse. Only then, when I saw her sit upright in the saddle and ride off beside him, did I allow myself to sigh with relief.
But now what would become of me? My heart was thumping as I sat down on the chair and nodded, smiling with relief, to the serving woman at the door. Like me, she had been waiting, wondering if the plan was going to work. She would have to unbar the door shortly and they would soon find that the tall figure standing at the window dressed in regal finery was not in fact the Queen, but a mere lady-in-waiting, impersonating her, as she made her escape. What punishment would be fit for a traitor such as I?
I remember the feeling of dread and apprehension as I waited to be discovered. And when I was, after the initial fury, they locked me in the room while they went after her. They took their time deciding what to do with me. And during those anxious days, I had never felt so lonely – nor so proud – for I was the one who had enabled Queen Mary to escape from the prison of Loch Leven Castle. And though solitude became my companion later in life during my many years at the convent, it was at Loch Leven Castle that I found it was isolation that irked. It was the first prison I had been in, although it wasn’t an actual prison; we were not kept 17 in the dungeon with bars on the windows. But it was the first of many castles I ended up staying in with the Queen during her captivity. I flicked back through the pages.
October 1567
Loch Leven Castle in Fife is reasonably comfortable, certainly less draughty than Edinburgh Castle, but it is the freedom to come and go that is lacking. The Queen does not allow talk of the word “imprisonment”, but there is no other term.
Apart from a small area of garden outside, where we are permitted to take a turn in the fresh air once a day, we are stranded on a tiny island in the middle of a loch some thirty miles from home. The Queen yearns not only for the opulence of the Court, but also for the simple things she enjoys such as hunting and riding. One day, she said she even missed her regular spats with John Knox.
Also, it is so quiet. Gone is the bustle of courtiers and the shuffle of servants. We have always been accustomed to our full quota of Maries, yet now I am alone, the only one lady-in-waiting to the Queen. Where there had been dozens and dozens of attendants to answer her every beck and call, now there is only a handful.
During the months we’ve been confined to a castle in the middle of Loch Leven, I have come to find company in loneliness. Yes, she wants me to sit beside her as we sew and stitch, and yet in those first few weeks, she remained silent, especially after the tragedy of her miscarriage. She hardly spoke after that. And because I know her so well, I knew that after it was all over and she began to feel physically stronger I should not mention it ever again. 18
But even when she decided to get out of bed and wanted to get dressed again, attending to some official business now and then, it was obvious her heart was broken. She was perhaps thinking of Bothwell or of her dead husband Darnley, but most of all, she was clearly thinking about her child. The little prince was being well cared for at Stirling Castle, but he should be with his mother. We were even nearer Stirling from Loch Leven than Edinburgh, and she said this somehow made her feel the loss even more.
Well versed as I am in her often volatile moods, I knew better than to engage her in conversation; and so I simply kept my peace and waited until she felt able to return to discourse. As well as missing her baby, she also feels her country has abandoned her. France is no longer her home and now Scotland, where we’ve lived for six long and happy years, seems to be forsaking her. The Lords are determined to get rid of her and now there is the young prince, they have a new sovereign. They could divest themselves of this troublesome woman.
Gone is the fun and gaiety we had enjoyed at Holyrood Palace: the masked balls, sumptuous dinners and dancing, the latter much to the annoyance of Old Johnnie Knox. She hated it when we Maries call him that. But, after all, he was ancient – fifty-four – when he married poor Margaret Stewart, who was only just seventeen. When the Queen railed against the betrothal, the nobles around her suggested she pick her battles elsewhere, that John Knox was already too powerful. And Margaret’s father, Lord Ochiltree, had always had it in for his regal cousin. I would not put it past him to take up arms against the Queen. He is a traitor, so unlike my loyal family. The Setons are always there for her and she knows it. She treasures all of us and has clung to us faithfully over the years, as we have to her. 19
The Queen and I spent eleven long months at Loch Leven castle and everyday life, sadly, was dull. I recall we had dinners instead of banquets and, though the food was acceptable, it was nothing compared to the elegant creations cooked by the French chefs in Edinburgh. I read on and smiled at the memory of one dinner.
Yesterday, we had goat meat for dinner, which so horrified the queen she flung the ashet from her table onto the floor.
“Je suis votre reine, pas une paysanne des champs!”
Where are her fine gilded quails, her capons with rosemary, and her favourite goose roasted with prunes from Bordeaux? The cook at the island castle only seems to own two spices – cloves and cinnamon – and these overpower everything with their brashness. We miss the delicate flavours of saffron, mace and ginger. Even the claret is not fresh and too often is doctored and served highly spiced and overly sweet.
At Holyrood, after the Queen had chosen the choicest morsels for her own plate, we four Maries ate and the courtiers were served, then finally the assembled servants, from tailors, milliners, grooms and cupbearers down to the table servers. But here at Loch Leven, the attendants are far fewer and so I note that they all eat in great quantity – if not in quality.
I skimmed forward through the diary, recalling that it did not take the Queen many weeks after her miscarriage to forego the silence and to begin her daily whisperings. I of course was the recipient of her muted conversation, and because there were undoubtedly spies in every chamber, I had to lean in close to hear. I can still recall inhaling the heady aroma of the damask rosewater she rubbed lavishly all over her white neck every morning. It gave me the same feeling of intimacy I enjoyed when I attended to the Queen’s hair, brushing out her auburn locks then rubbing 20 in the cinnamon oil I’d had Joan, the kitchen maid, produce. I’ll never forget her, the only servant there with any sort of brain; the first one I’d asked used a whole forpet of cinnamon in the oil and it was so strong the Queen nearly fainted and felt nauseous all day. When Joan eventually produced the oil according to my own receipt, it worked as well as the one I’d used at Holyrood. It helped me untangle and shape her beautiful hair, then thread through the pearls and ribbons she wore every day, whether at Court or in this new state of imprisonment.
March 1568
After many weeks of silence, she has begun to converse in agitated whisperings. And though “escape” is the one word she never utters, the notion of it hangs in the air between us. She has been staring at me strangely for some time, as if measuring my height, and so when she told me in those hushed tones that I could easily impersonate her, since I was as tall as her, at last I understood why. And as she revealed her plan, I knew what I had to do when the time was right: I was to pretend to be her, dressed as a Queen in all her finery, with furs, velvet and jewels, while I stood at the window of our first-floor chamber, for anyone to see.
And all the while, down below, dressed as an ordinary countrywoman, she would escape across the loch to safety in a little boat rowed by young Willie, the page. He is such a good and faithful servant, a kind lad who is much loved by the Queen.
My brother George, Lord Seton, would be on the far shore awaiting the arrival of the boat, and he’d help her up onto her horse. Then, together with his men, they would head south to Niddry Castle to assemble their loyal troops. 21
Thankfully, that May morning when I’d pretended to be the Queen at the window, they managed to evade capture, but not for long. It all ended badly at the battle of Langside where those treacherous Lords, including of course John Knox’s father-in-law Lord Ochiltree, defeated her and managed to scatter her loyal forces far and wide.
I recall so well those ten anxious days’ waiting, imprisoned in that room in the castle, while my keepers decided my fate. Then one morning, the door was unlocked and the Earl himself walked in. He told me I was a treacherous and disloyal servant of Scotland, and I steeled myself for words of hanging – or worse – but then he announced that I was of no importance and so could leave Loch Leven Castle unpunished. I left in a daze that afternoon and joined her at Langside where the ill-fated battle had just begun.
It was a relief to be once more at her side, even though our long years together as prisoners were starting over again, this time not in the comfort and familiarity of Scotland, but in England, where, under the keen eye of her English cousin, our lives were to change forever.