March 19, 1554

A letter from Mother and a small package as well. In the package was a paper carefully folded, and when I unfolded it a handkerchief fell out with a scattering of dried petals – petals of heather and harebells, thistle and gorse. It was as if all the Highlands of Scotland had flooded into my room. Just at that moment Janet Sinclair entered. Her eyes widened in great amazement. She looked about as if to catch the wafting breeze of some spirit or sprite that had suddenly stirred the air. Because indeed it felt as if some presence had entered the room. “What is it?” she asked, her eyes darting about my chamber as if to catch a glimpse of this illusive spirit.

“It is this,” I said, and I gathered the petals into the handkerchief and held it out to her. “My mother sent it with the letter I received from her this day.”

She took the handkerchief from me and pressed it to her nose, all the while mumbling softly in Gaelic, “Michty aye … michty aye (yes, yes)… Chuffed (pleased, delighted) … doss (magic)…” Her words spilled out.

Janet speaks a Gaelic different from mine, so although the words are often similar I do not always understand her. No matter, it was all very Scots. All words to describe that dear rough country from whence we came. She tells me about that land with its craggy headlands and outcroppings, its fields of green stippled with bright yellow gorse, rocky ledges to which the most delicate flowers somehow cling and find a niche to grow. Scotland!

Janet had come in to discuss with me what I would be wearing to the Services of the Shadows, those held in the evening on the Wednesday before Easter. I really loathe the Wednesday service that we all go to at Saint Denis. Queen Catherine insists that we all wear our most dark and sombre clothes. The services are after dark in the cathedral of Saint Denis where many of the French Kings and Queens are buried. After the passage from Matthew is read that describes how one man offered a sponge dipped in vinegar to Christ while he was on the cross, the priest passes through with a cloth soaked in vinegar for us to touch our lips to. We never did this in Scotland. I think it is something that came from Italy with Queen Catherine. Her uncle was, after all, a Pope. But I don’t like it, and it’s not just the sting of the vinegar.