March 21, 1554

Thank heavens the Service of the Shadows is behind me. I am not going back to Saint Denis until Easter Sunday. I am going to pretend that I am sick. I have had some stomach complaints of late and all I have to do is tell Doctor Bourgoing. Doctor Bourgoing is very young and nice, and he might even suspect that I am pretending, for I have done this before when I want to avoid certain occasions, especially those in which Queen Catherine dominates. That cathedral gives me the shivers. I do not know why but here in France they have what I can only describe as a dark practice in the burial of royalty. They cut out the heart of the dead King or Queen or Dauphin. They then embalm the rest of the body and put the heart in a vial filled with strong preservative fluids and place it in the reliquary of the cathedral. I think it is awful being dismembered in such a manner. The idea of going to one’s grave with parts missing is very disturbing to me. I must take this up with my uncles. I do not want this done to me. If I am Queen of Scotland and someday am to be Queen of France, I think as the ruler of two realms I should get to choose how I want to be dealt with after death. If the French object I am just going to say “Bury me in Scotland.” I do remember that still and misty graveyard on the island of Inchmahome in the middle of Lake Mentieth where I was taken after the Battle of Pinkie Cleugh.

When we went to the cathedral for the Service of the Shadows, I took the handkerchief my mother had sent me. The fragrance was still strong, and when they passed the cloth soaked in vinegar, I barely put it to my lips and just afterward pressed the handkerchief to my nose. I closed my eyes and for a few brief seconds I was in a place of no shadows, no dark priest with vinegar cloths, no Kings without hearts. Scotland filled my mind and for a few fleeting seconds I was home.