1603
The following day after morning prayers, I decided to visit the grave of Marie de Guise, Queen Mary’s mother. Situated at the back of the church in the little chapel of remembrance here at the Abbey St Pierre, it’s a place I often go, to sit still and contemplate as I feel it is somehow a conduit to my friend, her daughter. As I strolled around the cloisters, there was a sudden flurry of flapping wings up high in the large oak tree in the middle of the cloister garth. I looked up to see four crows leave their perches to fly towards the south, in the opposite direction of the bells that were now ringing from the cathedral.
Renee and I had discussed early on that my Queen Mary’s body would be brought here to be buried beside her mother. Mary had such an affection for her aunt Renee, indeed it was almost a daughter’s affection, not merely a niece’s, after her own mother died. But this did not happen and she is buried at Peterborough Cathedral instead, a place she has no links with. Just thinking about this makes me sadder than I could possibly have imagined. It was on the command of the English Queen. But I wonder if, now her son is King, he will move her casket back to Edinburgh or perhaps even to Westminster Abbey where I presume Elizabeth is to be buried.
Marie de Guise’s tomb is magnificent. It is marble, with a lifesize bronze statue of the lady in royal robes, holding a sceptre and the rod of justice in one hand. For many seem to forget that she too was Queen of Scotland, just like her daughter, who absolutely adored her. Mary de Guise was Queen Regent after her husband 194 King James V died, and from all accounts she was well-liked and respected. Admittedly, not admired by everyone; John Knox of course, even before he began to lambast my Queen Mary, criticised the Regent Queen’s every move, despite the fact she kept Scotland – a country she hardly knew, having been brought up in France – stable at times of potential uprisings and revolts.
I looked up to her face, carved in such delicate splendour in bronze. She seemed serene, noble and yet kindly. The bells of the cathedral had stopped and the crows had returned to the trees above. But for once they were silent and I was able to think back to when Queen Mary had been told of her mother’s death. I recall that we four Maries were in attendance to her at the French court, since she was Queen of France at that time, before her first husband Francois’s death. Even when King Francois died only a few months later, her grief was nothing compared to how she reacted when the Cardinal of Lorraine arrived to pass on the news of her mother. Afterwards, she railed against the French nobles who’d decided she shouldn’t be informed immediately of Mary de Guise’s death. When I think about it now, I agree it was shocking that it was a full ten days after she had passed away that the Cardinal arrived with the news.
Her grief was insurmountable and even though we Maries tried to console and comfort, she wanted only to take to her bed and cry and cry as her body collapsed with such sorrow. On her instructions some months later, her mother’s body was brought back over to France and buried here at Reims, where she knew Renee would pray at her grave. When I thought back to that day, it gave me an inkling of how she must have felt when she was wrenched away from her own beloved son, whom she never saw again after we fled to Loch Leven.
I finished my prayers, crossed myself and struggled to my feet. Really, my knees were getting worse and worse. As I walked back 195 around the cloisters, I thought once more of Loch Leven and Lilias. It occurred to me that I thought of Lilias the way Renee thought of her niece, with such familial affection. My feelings for Lilias had been almost motherly.
I decided that I would write to my nephew and probe a little about her time in that awful place. Surely there must be some explanation. Of course, it was too late, she was gone, and this Grizel had delivered a boy and so Alexander would be happy – if that were an emotion he was ever capable of expressing. But what if the child died – Catherine wrote that he was prone to coughs and chills – and Grizel could only produce girls. Then what would happen to this new wife? Might she suddenly disappear too?
I entered my cell and sat down at my desk. I picked up my quill, dipped it in the ink and began to write.