1603
Dear Sister Marie,
I write this letter in the midst of interesting times. I do not know how much – if any – news from England or indeed Scotland reaches the convent, so I thought I would write, in case you have not heard, that the English queen is dead and our King must go to London to take up the crown there too. He will be England’s King James I and our own James VI.
Well, well, so my beloved Queen’s son now rules over both countries. The little baby I saw come into this world that momentous day in Edinburgh Castle, with his sharp, pointy nose and tufts of black hair all over his bald head, is now King of both Scotland and England. What would my Queen have made of that, I wonder. I know in my heart she would have been overjoyed, no doubt about that. Though perhaps she would have also liked France to have been included in his domain.
I took up the letter to continue reading, then had a sudden thought about James. Should I write to him and offer my compliments, my homage? But I was no longer a subject and he had taken no interest in me during my lifetime’s attendance on his mother, so why bother him now? I raised my head to the ceiling, as usual wincing as I felt how stiff my neck was, and sighed. Should I mention to him that Renee de Guise, his great aunt, had died last year and now I had no income at all and indeed was now almost a pauper?
But we’ve had no communication these past decades and so 189 how would that appear? Besides, I was a Seton; we do not beg. Perhaps I could instead simply write to my nephew and ask him to pass on my felicitations to his Master the King. I had often wondered about what I would write in a letter to Alexander after the horror I witnessed at Loch Leven Castle, so now might be the chance to focus my attention on corresponding with him. I had not written to anyone in Scotland since Catherine’s last letter. Perhaps it is time, though to be honest, my command of English has become rather rusty. I speak only French here.
I told you in my last letter that Grizel, your nephew’s new wife, was safely delivered of a baby boy. His name is Charles – just like the King’s son – and he fares reasonably well, though he does seem to be prone to chills and coughs. For this reason, his mother – who is really but a child herself – always insists on having the nursery far too hot; the fires were again raging the last time I visited and it was a warm day outside.
I see Alexander seldom, for he is so often at the King’s side, though that is all about to change since the Court will reconvene in London as soon as Their Majesties travel south. We hear the King has promised to return to visit Scotland every three years at least, and yet many I speak to doubt he will fulfil this promise. The King’s second child, Prince Charles, is to be brought to live at Fyvie Castle under the tutelage of your nephew and his wife Grizel. As you can imagine, though this a great honour, it is proving a great deal of strain on relations at Fyvie, both with the family and also the servants.
Oh, how Alexander will be in his element, I thought as I looked around the bare cell that was now gloomy in the late afternoon light. I tried to imagine the beguiling little boy I once knew as an ambitious, ruthless middle-aged man now. Though I recall 190 his obsession with male heirs started long before he was even betrothed. When I considered what had happened to Lilias, the word ruthless did not seem strong enough. I have thought long and hard about my visit to her since I returned to Reims and the convent. I spent the first few weeks in the chapel on my knees praying not only for her soul, but also for his. I admit, my knees have not recovered since.
The more I thought about it, the more I realised there must have been a reason why poor Lilias had been left to starve. Surely there was some sort of valid explanation. My nephew was driven and could be selfish, but a murderer he was not. I met Lilias only at the end when she was delusional and her mind had been altered by the lack of food; she was clearly hallucinating. So what actually happened at Loch Leven to end up with her dying in such a sordid and agonising manner?
I was lulled out of my reverie by a noise. I sat still and listened. It was coming from outside my cell. I got to my feet and walked slowly to the door then pulled it open a little. Sisters Janette and Albertine were talking to each other, agitated.
“What seems to be the trouble?”
They jumped apart and the younger one, Janette, bowed. “Désolées, Mère Abbesse, mais nous avons des nouvelles.”
“Je ne suis pas Mere Abbesse.” I sighed. These younger nuns had no idea how to conduct themselves. I am not the Abbess, I am simply looking after things until Renee’s great niece is able to journey here from Lorraine.
Albertine stepped forward. “Sorry, Sister Marie. We have just heard the news about the English Queen and did not know whether to tell you now or after compline.”
I sighed again.
“Thank you, Sisters. I have already heard. And now it will soon be time for prayers. Please go to prepare the chapel.” They both 191 turned and scuttled away.
I shook my head. The responsibility was really too much now. It was perfectly manageable when I was just a nun and Renee de Guise was Abbess, but now I was in charge, albeit temporarily, I found it all too intrusive; I never had a moment’s peace. Also, even though Renee was eighty when she died, I am now over sixty and find my energy dissipated and my creaking bones less able. But I suppose it was what I had signed up for when I came to the convent all these years ago, when Renee came to treat me as her confidante and friend, rather like her niece did.
I had no idea I would end up running the convent, though thankfully not for much longer. I was still hoping the new Abbess would arrive soon. We kept hearing the weather was not conducive to travel. But it was now March, so surely she would be here soon to take over the duties of Abbess. I was not groomed to lead, but only to be led. It was my calling with Mary my Queen, and I was ready to return to that lowly status here at the convent.
There is another matter I feel the need to mention to you, Sister Marie. As you know, I spoke with some friends several months ago who know the Earl and Countess of Morton. You will recall I told you Lilias and her husband were to be their guest at Loch Leven Castle. It has been on my conscience since I met these friends, wondering if I ought to have told you what I was told during their visit. I have concluded that you might be interested to hear it has been confirmed that the Earl had sold Loch Leven Castle before Lilias even arrived there. And that he, his wife and their entire family have been living at Aberdour Castle for some time now. I still have not felt able to ask Lord Fyvie about this since, as you know, your nephew is not always the easiest man to speak to and he is seldom in residence at Fyvie when I visit. There are many things that still do not make sense. 192
He seems now to be happy with my stepdaughter Grizel since she has produced his long-awaited son. The last time I saw him, which was some time ago at the baby’s baptism, he had had several glasses of claret for he swayed as he stood. He took my hands in his, leant towards me and told me how overjoyed he was with his baby son. He then whispered in my ear that, if only my dear sister could have provided him with a male heir, she might still be here.
When I looked askance, he then muttered something about her anxiety and stress contributing to the illness that killed her. I could of course not say that before she was married she was carefree and content. For this was clearly not what His Lordship wanted to hear.
But I mention the matter of the ownership of Loch Leven Castle to you as there is no one else I can relay my fears to. I hate the thought of my sister having been there alone or at least without her family; presumably there were servants to attend to her in her sickness.
Oh, if only there had been servants, not just that evil caretaker.
Now I must end this letter and hope that it finds you well. I don’t suppose you can ever leave the convent now but if you ever do, you know you would be most welcome to stay here with us, though I imagine you would prefer to stay with your nephew at Fyvie.
Your friend,
Catherine Leslie