Chapter 9
1585
The next morning – and for several days afterwards – there was no walk in the grounds. On wakening, I looked outside and saw only sombre clouds of billowing snowflakes, swirling around. The ground was already white, covered with a thick blanket of snow. There were some footsteps, presumably from the grooms heading for the stables at the other side of the courtyard. My first thought was that Mama would not be able to leave today as she had hoped. She would just have to be patient, since the marriage discussions with my sister would obviously have to wait.
Instead of taking the air outside, I was invited to Marie Seton’s bedchamber to join her for a light collation and some refreshments.
“Come, sit down, my dear. Try this.” I sat beside her and took a sip. It was delicious wine. I had noticed that the wine and quality of the food at Fyvie were so much better than what I was used to at Drummond Castle.
“The difference between my nephew’s wine and some of the offensive offerings the Queen and I have had to suffer during the past sixteen years is remarkable. Your future husband has an excellent cellar, but he did, after all, spend ten years in Europe acquainting himself with both the delights of fine wines in France and Italy and the usefulness of wine merchants.”
She took a sip herself as I bit into a sweetmeat. “I cannot tell you how improved I feel in health after only a few weeks here.”
As she put her glass down, I noticed a ring on her thumb. “Is that a ruby in your ring?” 45
“Yes, another gift from Her Majesty. Do you like it?”
“Yes, I do. I don’t think I’ve seen such a large ruby before.”
“Then you shall have it,” she said pulling it off her thumb.
“No, no, it is yours,” I cried. “It was from the Queen!”
She shook her head. “Remember, Lilias, I am about to take the veil. I shall have to renounce all worldly goods. No adornment such as jewellery can be worn.” She smiled. “Though I will have a long think about my parure before I go.”
I took it and put it on the third finger of my right hand. “Thank you, Aunt Marie, I shall treasure it.”
“There, you see it fits perfectly where it ought to go. My fingers are too thin, always have been. And age does not help. Anything.”
She pushed a tray of sweetmeats over towards me. I’d already had a rosewater one, which was so good. She watched me nibble on another then leant over and looked at my hair.
“Lilias, do you – or does your mother – have any long strings of pearls? I think that, given the length of your lovely hair, I could do some narrow plaits and weave the pearls in between, then coil it up, just as I used to do for the Queen.”
I put my hand up to my hair. It had never occurred to me my hair was lovely.
“I’m sure she does. I shall try to look some out for the next time we meet.”
We spent many mornings together, even more once Mama had returned home. My afternoons were usually spent, certainly until the deep snow thawed, with my future husband in the Charter Room, listening to his continuing plans on the interior of the castle and his proposition for my portrait to be hung on the wall. He had commissioned a French artist, an acquaintance of the 46 architect whose brilliant work was evident all over the exteriors of Fyvie, to come over from Paris before our marriage and paint me. I hoped that Marie Seton would still be here, for she could perhaps arrange my hair with those pearls in the way we had discussed and indeed demonstrated one morning. Mama had many attributes, but hair coiffure was not one of them. And none of our servants were skilled in attending to the fine details of a lady’s toilette.
The wedding date was now set, since Mama had told Alexander she was keen for it to take place before Catherine’s. I kept wondering what my sister thought about marrying a very much older man and one who already had six children, the youngest of whom was only weeks old. No doubt she would be expected to produce more children herself; was that the primary role of a wife?
This question I could never ask Mama as I know she would say yes of course, what else is a wife for? But one day, not long before my wedding and the day before she left for France, I talked to Marie about it. She raised an eyebrow.
“Do you know, Lilias, the day I witnessed the birth of Prince James at Edinburgh Castle was traumatic – obviously for the Queen, who could so easily have died, but also for all of us Maries. The other three have of course gone on to marry and produce children, but I vowed that day I would never take a husband.”
There was a twitch of a smile as if a thought occurred. She took a sip of wine and leant towards me.
“I had beaux though, you know. Suitors came calling, but what with my own convictions and the fact that George would not have permitted me marrying anyone from a lower station, nothing ever happened.”
Her brother George, Lord Seton, had arrived the previous week to rest before he set off with Marie to France to accompany her to the convent. It was interesting to see the difference between 47 Alexander and his father. Lord Seton was a kindly old gentleman who obviously adored his son, perhaps to the point of indulgence, as Marie had said. I sometimes wondered, during that time I spent at Fyvie before our wedding, if perhaps when we were married my husband might indulge me? Though the more I got to know him, the more I doubted it. Physically, he appeared more handsome with every day I saw him; and yet emotionally, he always seemed rather remote, as if thinking about something else, always in a hurry to move on to another project. Well, perhaps once we were married I would be the focus of his attention. Surely that was how it worked?
The day Marie told me about her suitors, we were walking in the grounds, strolling along the bank of the River Ythan. At last there was a hint of spring in the air, there were snowdrops all along the water’s edge and there was a welcome return of birdsong. As we came to the little bridge, she stopped, took my arm and looked directly at me.
“I may appear to you as merely an old spinster, but don’t forget, once I was young.” She stroked a wrinkled cheek. “There was a gentleman called Andrew Beaton – no relation of Marie Beaton, by the way – who had become Master of the Queen’s household during her captivity. My brother George previously held that noble post, as I’m sure you know. But he had to relinquish the role in order to undertake diplomatic missions for the Queen, mainly to France. And so we saw Andrew Beaton every day during our years in England imprisoned in those castles at Sheffield, Tutbury, Wingfield…”
She shivered, as if the memory of them brought back the chill she had suffered daily.
“Andrew began to seek out my company and, though I never thought any more about it, it was the Queen who told me one day that he had surely fallen in love with me. I didn’t understand what that meant and certainly had not noticed, but the Queen 48 was of course more versed in such things. So when I began to pay more attention to him, I realised it was true and I was in a state of turmoil when I considered the vow I’d made to myself all those years before.”
“Did the Queen encourage the gentleman in pursuing you?” I asked, fascinated. How did anyone know another person loved them, unless it was their mother? That love, I realised, was unconditional.
“She did nothing to discourage him. Rather, it was I who discouraged him, not only because of my vow of chastity, but also I knew my brother would not approve.” Marie sighed.
“What happened to him?”
“He died on a mission to France to try to obtain nullification of my vow. For I’d always agreed to go to the convent in France; it was simply a matter of when. That was way back in August 1577. When you were but a child.” She smiled. “He managed to obtain the agreement of Renee de Guise that should I ever want to marry I could, and the vow could indeed be annulled. But sadly, it was all for nothing.”
“What happened?” I touched Marie’s hand; she was trembling.
“He set off from Calais and there was a terrible storm. He was drowned.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just squeezed her hand and stole a glance at her face. It was unfathomable.
“I wondered afterwards if I did in fact love him; how does one know? But I suppose the main thing was the knowledge that he loved me. That I still keep in my heart.”
As we walked back over the fields towards the castle in silence, I could not help but wonder if my future husband was in love with me; I don’t know why, but I doubted it. Surely I could try to love him, though?