Chapter 10
1586
I was still becoming acquainted with marriage – and indeed with my husband – when I realised I was expecting our second child. Mama had said, when I gave birth to our first baby, Anne, only ten months after our wedding, “My darling daughter, you have fulfilled part of your wifely role.” When I asked her what she meant, as I lay in bed, watching the wet nurse feed the baby in the corner, she said, “Isn’t it obvious?”
“No, Mama. I have produced a healthy baby and I didn’t die in childbirth. Surely that is enough?”
She smiled and stroked my cheek. “Lilias, sweetheart, it is all very well to have a beautiful daughter; I have six and am overjoyed. But I also have two sons and your father is content. So too will your husband be when he has a son.”
When I realised I was to have a second child, I decided to tell my husband one morning while we waited for the servants to open the bedroom door and bring us our morning draught.
“That is good news, Lilias. Anne is not even a year old so that bodes well for your fecundity and my future children. I am convinced you will produce only sons now.” He smiled and sat up, while I tried to take in his words.
“I am feeling rather nauseous, Alexander,” I said, weakly.
“Oh well, that won’t last long will it, my dear?” He gave me a peck on the cheek and sprang out of bed to open the curtains. “What a beautiful spring day. I shall be out hunting with Robert until the evening. Entertain the visitors well until then, be lavish and bountiful.” 50
Our guests were his older brother Robert Seton, his wife Margaret and their children. Robert had taken over the title of Lord Seton after their father had died several months before. Their elder brother George had died when he was only twelve and so Robert, as second son, inherited. Interestingly, it was when Alexander told me the news of his father’s death that I realised I did in fact know him rather well by now. For instead of looking sad or mournful, he raged and insisted he would have been better to inherit the family title since he was far more capable, even though he was already Lord Fyvie. His resentment about being born fourth seethed just below the surface.
Well, he had older brothers, what could he expect? Sometimes he was hard to fathom; at times he appeared rather sensitive, especially when telling me of the aesthetics of his beautiful gardens, and yet he seemed to place so much importance on rank. Although so did Mama, but she also stressed the significance of wifely duties, which I was still struggling with a little. But as I said to her, I was still only seventeen and was already expecting my second child. She just gave me one of her looks.
“Alexander, do you think you ought to write to Aunt Marie? Margaret said yesterday that she might not be aware there is going to be some sort of trial at Fotheringay Castle. Is that possible? Why would the Queen be on trial? She has done nothing wrong, surely.”
He shook his head. “My godmother is innocent of all specious charges. Her cousin is merely jealous. But I’m sure we needn’t worry, there is nothing she has the power to do.”
“Queen Elizabeth would surely not execute her own cousin, would she?”
He swung round from the window, face contorted with rage. “Do not talk about things you don’t understand, Lilias. Our fair Queen will emerge from these years of captivity and then all 51 England will be able to judge who is the stronger monarch.”
I watched him stride towards his dressing room and slam the door. That was presumably part of what Mama said one had to put up with from a husband; though I cannot imagine Papa ever slamming doors or having rages. I was about to get up when I realised he still had not answered my question about Marie. Perhaps I ought to write; I would take guidance from Margaret Seton.
1587
“Sit down, Lilias, I have grave news,” Alexander commanded as I entered the room, clutching my belly. Even though it was only recently confirmed, I was already big with this third pregnancy, which convinced my husband that I was carrying a fine, strapping boy.
“I have just heard from my brother. You remember the trial at Fotheringay last year?”
I nodded. He was looking very strained, indeed almost emotional.
“A deputation from London arrived there and Shrewsbury informed the Queen she had been found guilty and condemned to death.”
I gasped. “Guilty of what?”
He swallowed. “Treason. The only excuse they could invent.”
I was about to ask another question but noticed he was agitated, stamping about on his feet as if he stood on hot coals. I held my tongue, as I had become accustomed to doing, and soon he told me about how she was told of her death sentence only the night before she was executed. She was denied everything she asked for – her own chaplain, her own accounts and even her place of burial. She wanted to be interred in Reims, at Renee de 52 Guise’s convent, doubtless in order that Aunt Marie could tend her grave and so that she could be laid to rest beside her mother. But no, nothing; all her requests were refused. She spent her last night alone without any company except for her servants, who were, understandably, hysterical and weeping around her.
I did not want my husband to continue, uncontrollable tears were already streaming down my face. I did not want to hear any more, but I had no choice but to listen.
“The following morning at eight o’clock, she walked into the Great Hall at Fotheringay in a manner more regal than her depraved, murderous cousin and, with great dignity and composure, accepted her death.”
I wiped my tears and watched him close his eyes as if imagining the scene.
“She sent a message to her son to say she had never done anything to hinder the welfare of the kingdom of Scotland and her wish was that in time he would reign over both Scotland and England.” He swallowed. “And then, with the utmost fortitude, she lay her beautiful head on the block and…” He shut his eyes. “Then they killed her.”
The silence was thick in the room. I stretched out my hand to reach my husband’s, but he swept it away.
“Our Queen was murdered. Murdered, Lilias!” He had an unhinged look. “Believe me, there will be a price to pay.” He took a deep breath. “But in the meantime, we will rally round the prince – who is now of course King James.” He crossed himself.
“Of course, God bless the King,” I said, also crossing myself. “How old is he now?”
“Twenty, a mere boy.”
He was distracted, fidgety. He darted away from me to look out the window and stood there for a while, breathing deeply as if trying to calm himself. His eyes narrowed as if he was trying to 53 resolve something, but as I watched him, I said nothing; I knew better than to disturb him when he was in one of his moods. Slowly, he turned around and spoke in a low mutter. I leant towards him, straining to hear.
“He is already betrothed to Princess Anne of Denmark. We will invite him here soon. Alone or with his Danish bride.”
I tried not to show surprise or indeed joy, but maintained an impassive face as my duty required. I waited and soon he continued. “So when they bear children, I swear on my unborn son’s life that I will make Fyvie Castle their sanctuary. Just you wait and see, Lilias.”
I did not like to point out that the new King was already Protestant and our Roman ways might not please him, but my husband was not only dogged, he was also resourceful – and exceedingly versatile. He had told me a few months before, at supper, that while he was in Rome as a teenager, he had been in a church with all the candles lit and glittering gold everywhere around the altar and the incense wafting and he suddenly asked himself if this was the right way to worship God. I was shocked – what alternative could there possibly be? – but he continued, telling me that perhaps there was value in some of the less luxurious and decidedly simpler Protestant ways.
He had mentioned that he might worship occasionally at Fyvie Church in the village, for Protestantism was all about public prayer and communion; I never imagined he actually meant it. But I remembered this now as he pledged to make the new protestant King and his future family friends of Fyvie. This could surely not happen if we continued with our Roman ways, and I knew that he would somehow achieve exactly what he set out to do, because he always did.
He turned back round and I could see his eyes blaze with determination and fire.