January 21, 1554

Last night before retiring for bed I went to Mary Seton’s chambers. She was almost ready for bed. Her chambermaid Violette, whom she shares with Mary Livingston, was surprised to see me and Mary even more so.

“What brings you here?” Mary asked, adjusting her nightcap.

I walked right up to her as she stood by her bed and took both her hands in mine and held them firmly. She looked down at her feet in the embroidered night slippers, as if the flowers stitched of blue- and rose-coloured beads were the most interesting things in the world. I laughed softly. “Even in silence you cannot tell a lie, can you, Mary Seton?” Her fingers tightened in my hands. “Look at me, Mary Seton.” My voice was gentle, but it was the command of a Queen to her subject. She would not refuse. Her steady blue eyes looked into mine. They brimmed with tears! “Mary dear, what is it? What did Nostradamus say?”

“Oh, Milady. It cannot be true. Of this I am sure.”

“Just tell me, Mary, and let me be the judge.”

Mary Seton lifted her chin and looked straight at me. “All the children had been running about and Queen Catherine suddenly said to Nostradamus, ‘You have told me of my children, but what about the one from Scotland? Do you perceive any calamity threatening this fair young head?’ And he answered in a very low voice, but we four Marys heard. ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘I perceive blood.’” Mary Seton’s chin began to quiver, and the tears that brimmed in her eyes fell in silvery tracks down her cheek.

How can I describe my feelings? A terrible blackness seemed to well up from the pit of my stomach. I grasped Mary Seton’s hands harder, but then from someplace within me there came a strange and mysterious strength. I knew that I must not succumb to fear or tremors or tears. I must show courage. The blood of William Wallace does not run in my veins, but indeed his spirit invades my heart. I shall be a Braveheart worthy of Scotland. “Rest your fears, Mary Seton, and tell the other Marys to rest theirs. I shall speak with Monsieur Nostradamus myself. And remember, not every prophecy is fulfilled. Perhaps we should be grateful, for it will make us all the more vigilant.”

As this point Mary Seton gasped and fell to her knees. “Your Majesty,” she whispered, “you are a true daughter of Scotland. You are bold of heart and stout of mind. You are a Queen!”

“And you four Marys are the most faithful subjects a Queen could ever have.”