February 1587
I will never forget today: the day I heard the Queen was executed. I was lying on my pallet, here at the convent of St Pierre in Reims, shivering in the February dawn, listening to the harsh, throaty calls of the corneilles noires in the trees outside, trying to recall the word in English for these black cawing birds. And then I remembered the name was carrion crow. Of course, how could I forget that? A crow, black and menacing in both its appearance and its ominous cry.
There was a knock at my door. How strange. No one calls at our doors, we all just rise at dawn, dress, then meet in the chapel for morning prayers.
“Entrez!”
I sat up as the Abbess, Renee de Guise, entered my room and sat on the wooden chair beside my bed.
I was about to speak but saw she had shut her eyes as if in prayer. I waited, trying to block out the noise from the murder of crows outside.
Eventually she spoke, in a hushed voice, as if she were about to reveal an awful secret. I was filled with a sudden dread.
“Marie, j’ai des nouvelles graves, très graves.” She breathed out, long and slow, as if trying to keep her composure.
I looked down at my hands as she began to speak. And I continued to stare at them, twisting my fingers round and round like a madwoman, as if trying to wring out and expel her vile account. I listened as she told me of her niece’s death a fortnight earlier. She gave me few details, only that there had been a mock trial then an 55 illegal and swift execution. She had been regal and dignified to the end, facing the horror with poise and grace.
I had not trusted myself to look at the Abbess’s face as she spoke, but when I eventually wrenched my hands apart and raised my head, I glimpsed a face brimming with sorrow, an aunt trying to maintain her self-control as she recounted the murderous story. As I was still trying to understand how this could have happened, I saw her expression turn from anguish to fury.
She stood up and looked directly at me.
“Maintenant il faut prier.”
She told me that we must now all pray for Her Majesty’s soul and for the well-being of the young prince. Then, instead of speaking of absolution and prayers of forgiveness, she finished by spitting out the words, “Sa cousine, la reine d’Angleterre … on ne lui pardonnera jamais.” So there was to be no pardon granted, instead it seemed as if this holy woman was cursing Queen Elizabeth. Even with this enraged utterance, still she did not shed a single tear.
That was for me to do. She left the room, pulling the door shut, and the tears began to stream down my cheeks then all of a sudden I was shaking with sobs, bawling like a baby as my head filled with feelings of horror, of grief and of self-condemnation. For I should have been with her. Why had I not waited a mere two years longer before coming to the convent, and stayed with my Mistress when she surely needed me most? My health was nothing compared to the obligation I had abandoned, the duty I had relinquished.
I remember sitting for quite some time, considering what I should do. I wondered about going home, all the while regretting that I’d left her side. The other Maries would certainly never be blamed. I considered retreating to the Seton family home where I would surely be an embarrassment, perhaps always known as the 56Marie who abandoned the Queen in her hour of need? I had no choice. I knew I had to continue my life of devotion here, come what may.
I wiped away my tears, swung my legs off the pallet and stamped my bare feet down onto the rough stone. I flung open my tiny window and the crows fluttered and flapped their wings then flew away, soaring in a great black cloud, heavenward.
I opened the drawer of my armoire and took out the ivory comb, the only vestige of my former life with Queen Mary. Everything else – all the fine gowns, the exquisite jewellery, the laces, brocades and silks – was gone from my life. I lifted it to my head and combed my greying hair, then dressed in haste. Clutching the fine comb in one hand, I took a deep breath before opening the door and striding along the cloisters walkway. I entered the chapel where I lay down on the cold stone floor and remained, prostrate with grief, the tines of the comb stabbing into the palm of my hand, until the Abbess came to lift me gently up for compline.