Chapter 30
1601
Chère Tante Marie,
I was pleased to receive your letter and you must accept my apologies for not having written sooner. There is so much to do up here at Fyvie and as you are aware, I am very often at Court. The King requires my counsel on many matters pertaining to the law.
I hope this finds you well. Over the years, I have kept abreast of how you are keeping, through your regular communications with my wife. And I was pleased to read that your aches and pains seem to be less severe these days. As you no doubt know, Mama continues in reasonable health, having recovered from her recent fall and despite the fact she is now in her seventieth year. Her mind is not as agile as it was, according to my sister Margaret who is near enough to see her regularly.
I presume that means he never bothers to see his mother himself. Even as a child he always was fickle, choosing the people in his life who would help him along the way. A mere woman – unless she were Queen Mary, or a wife to give him heirs – could not fulfil that role.
But, dear aunt, to matters less genial. The reason I have not written before is because we have all been worrying so much about Lilias. Since shortly after New Year’s Day, she has been ill and is now confined to bed. It all began with mild digestive problems, then, because she could not keep any food down, she began to become increasingly weak. Now she sleeps much of the time and the physician has advised me that her vital organs are failing. 138
I stopped reading. I did not understand. They were to travel to Loch Leven on the third or fourth of January. Surely she was not suddenly struck down when they were there? She had a strong constitution, she enjoyed her food and ate heartily. How could a digestive ailment suddenly strike one so healthy?
It is with great sadness that I must convey the news that she may not have much longer on this earth, but instead she may go to join our dear departed daughter Margaret. I have not wanted to tell you before, as we of course always believed there would be some improvement, some remedy that would restore her to health. But now it seems there is nothing that can be done. The doctors say it could be only a few weeks.
I leant back against the chair and stared at the letter. None of this was feasible, nothing made sense.
I am so sorry, dear aunt, to have to write with such sad news. And my next letter, I fear, will be even sadder.
Please do not let this news distress you, however, for we all know how loved she has been in her thirty healthy years by us all.
Until I write again, chère tante, please keep well
Your loving nephew,
Alexander
I shook my head. How was it possible she had been at Fyvie Castle suffering from some fatal digestive problem since I had her last letter? I presume that meant she never in fact travelled to Fife? But why had she not written to me earlier on, when perhaps she began to feel unwell but was not yet incapacitated? 139
A harsh caw right outside my window shook me from my reverie. This did not make sense, none of it did. But whatever was happening, I knew what I now had to do. I would go at once to see the Abbess and ask permission to take leave and travel back to Scotland immediately; it seemed as if I had little time. As I thought about the long journey ahead, I knew what I also had to do. Instead of travelling directly north to Fyvie, I would stop first at Loch Leven Castle.
I pushed the chair back and got to my feet. Usually my bones ached, but, in a minuscule way, some of the pains were assuaged. Perhaps God was about to make me stronger for the journey ahead. I stood up straight, crossed myself, then inclined my head to listen. The noise from the carrion crows outside had changed. Instead of their usual harsh squawk, there was now a shift in timbre to a sinister rattling cry, a sure sign that there were predators about.