1615
Dear Alexander Seton,
You have already received the sad news that your aunt Marie Seton died last month. She had no personal effects apart from the enclosed. On her death bed, she asked me to send it to you as a reminder of her. She said it would mean a great deal to you. She died a much-loved sister here at the convent St Pierre de Reims and has been laid to rest in our chapel, alongside the tomb of Marie de Guise, the mother of Marie Seton’s friend Queen Mary of Scots. I hope that, should you ever travel to France again, you might be able to pay your respects.
With God’s blessings,
Marguerite Kirkaldi
Abbesse, St Pierre de Reims
Alexander Seton’s hands were trembling as he opened the small velvet bag that had been enclosed with the letter. He was used to having his wife Margaret at his side for administrative matters these days, since his sight was failing him and, he had to admit, his judgement was sometimes found lacking. But she was away visiting the new young minister in the village. As his fingers grasped the object inside the bag and he realised what it was, he was glad she was not with him.
He withdrew a ring and held it up to the light where it sparkled and shone with a glint of red. It was the ruby ring that his godmother Queen Mary had given to his aunt Marie Seton. She in turn had gifted it to his first wife, Lilias, who died with it on her hand. He grimaced with pain at the memory of her time at Loch Leven, as he turned the ring between his fingers. His aunt 304 had taken the ring from his dead wife’s hand and now he held it in his. His eyes widened as he began to understand what this meant. Why would his aunt want him to have this ring, which was surely cursed? She had seen through his excuses, he knew that; she was clever, she had the Seton insight.
Even though it was many years ago, he couldn’t forget the look of fear and bewilderment on Lilias’s face as she was rowed away from him on the shore of Loch Leven. Soon after, he’d gone over to the castle with her bags, having, to his shame, riffled through them. And when Kenneth asked him not once but twice to clarify his duties – “So she’s not to get any food, Your Lordship?” “Nothing to eat at all?” – even that callous brute had looked baffled. But when he thrust his money at the man, the keeper simply shrugged, grabbed her bag and trudged off towards the tower.
Alexander bowed his head and sighed when he thought of the day Kenneth sent word to him that she’d died and that he’d taken her body to Dalgety Bay where he was awaiting instructions. Fortunately, he was at Court in Dunfermline and so was able to travel at once to set everything in motion. The burial at the family vault took place the following day, the minister having been furnished with the news that a terrible and sudden illness had befallen his beloved wife as they travelled through Fife.
He sat completely still for a while then, once his mind was made up, he pushed the ring back into the bag, opened the drawer in front of him and took out a key. He headed for the corner of the room where he pulled out the panelling beside the window. It folded back on itself to reveal a small wooden door, set deep in the stone. He pushed the key into the lock and turned the doorknob. He grabbed a candle from the table and crouched low, before descending the stone steps into the dark, damp chamber.
Here he patted around until he found the wooden box, which he opened, checking it was still empty. His wife Margaret had 305 suggested the new silver communion cup be stored at the church, but the box was still here. He placed the ring inside and shut the lid then tucked it back in the corner. He returned to the Charter Room, locked the door and shifted the wooden panelling back into place.
He had just replaced the candle holder on the table when an intense pain stabbed him in his heart. He clutched his chest with two hands and staggered towards the seat where he slumped down. The sharp pain began to ease and soon it became an excruciating ache, yet his breath was still shallow. He continued sitting there as his breath returned to normal and his heart beat less fast. He suddenly felt an overwhelming fatigue and shut his eyes.
Some time later, the door opened and Margaret, Lady Fyvie, entered, the broad smile on her face illuminated by the candle in her hand. She tiptoed towards her husband, placed a hand on his brow and he awoke with a start.
“Come, Alexander,” she said, in her soothing voice, “it’s late. It is time for your medication.”
He stared at her with bleary eyes and stretched out his hand to her to help him up. “The curse, Margaret, I cannot fight the curse much longer.”
She patted his arm and walked him slowly to the door, a young woman helping an old man as he shuffled off into the night.
The End