June 1, 1554

Nearly two weeks since I have written. My illness took a turn for the worse. I was actually delirious at one point. They bled me. Doctor Bourgoing finally agreed. I was so delirious I did not realize they were slicing into my heel and cupping it. Now my heel is black and blue and hurts if I put weight on it. I had strange, turbulent dreams, for days on end it seemed. I often dreamed of Robin MacClean. In one dream we stood in a pool of the fountain and he piped to me. It was so real. I could almost feel the water lapping against my legs. In another we, Robin and I, were back in Scotland at Lake Mentieth at the priory on the island of Inchmahome. We were the only people on the island, and Robin said we should swim around it. But I said, “I cannot swim.”

“It is easy,” he said. “I’ll teach you how. Climb on my back.” So I did. I held on to his broad shoulders, and the movement of his body through the water was soon inscribed on my mind, and I said, “I can swim by myself.” And I slipped off his back and floated. We swam together around the island and on a rock near shore Francis waved to us. He had a sweet, sad look on his face.

“Oh, Mary! Mary! What a swimmer you are!” he called out.

“Come in, Francis. It’s easy.”

“No, I shall never be able to. Mary, you are strong and beautiful.” I looked at Robin and I saw from the happy look on his face that he agreed. I hope that in my delirium I did not call out any names.