August 23, 1554

The powders worked! I take not the name of the Lord in vain when I say, My God, how shocked and frightened I was. I must now ask if it was worth it. Never would I have expected the events to unfold as they did and right at the ball at that. My exquisite dress ruined – stained with purple! My dear Mary Fleming’s face bruised with the same purple, the bodice of her dress and the top of her breasts hideously splotched purple, and that is not all! Let me directly as possible relay the events and then reveal the culprit.

All four Marys and I had been at the ball for at least an hour or more. We had dined on fruit ices and sweet pastries that were cut into the shapes of stars. The poets delighted us with recitations. A quadrille had been called and then a gavotte, a Burgundian one. I did not notice, nor did any of us, really, although apparently Mary Fleming thought she had caught Mary Seton’s and Mary Livingston’s eye when she left the ballroom. There was another dance or two and then the Paduan pavane, a favourite of the Italians, as it comes from the city of Padua. Signore Marcellini had taught it to me and I thought nothing of his asking to be my partner. In the Paduan version of the pavane, the gentleman places his right hand on the lady’s waist and spins her slowly clockwise and then anticlockwise before they proceed for sixteen counts side by side, with his hand still on her waist. We did this, and then when the dance was completed I curtsied to Signore Marcellini, as is the custom. He left.

The next dance I was partnered with the poet Joachim Du Bellay. First of all, it must be understood that Du Bellay had arrived only that afternoon and secondly that the dance we did had no touching. We merely faced each other. At the finish as I dipped down in my curtsy I saw these odd streaks across the bodice of my dress. They were purple streaks! The hands that touched my waist had touched the letters! My partner in the last dance, the Paduan pavane, was the snoop, none other than Signore Marcellini!

Just as these separate thoughts began to weave themselves into a web of horror, there was a tiny yelp, almost as if a dog had been stepped on. It was a cry from the balcony off the ballroom. I don’t think many others heard it, but I saw Mary Beaton’s face white with fury. I rushed to the balcony. Mary Beaton dragged me to the shadows where Mary Livingston and Mary Seton stood with their arms around Mary Fleming. Her face was bloodless except for the streaks of purple that slashed like saber marks across one cheek and down her neck to where her bodice had been torn and hung stained with purple. Her lips, too, were purple, making her mouth appear like a squashed blossom.

We all stared at one another and then the girls looked at me. “Your dress, Mary!” Of course, only Mary Beaton knew about the purple powder and the trap we had set to catch the snoop, but we had no idea that the snoop would be the loathsome creature Signore Marcellini! At that moment we saw Signore Marcellini threading his way through the back of the ballroom and furiously peeling off his gloves. But his hands were bright purple, as well! I raced to pick up a glove as it fell. “Mary Beaton,” I said sharply, “explain to the other Marys what is happening. I am off to see Queen Catherine directly.” The Queen had retired earlier.

“Is that wise, Your Majesty?” Mary Beaton bobbed a half curtsy. Did she perhaps mean it was impulsive? Would my mother have counselled me to wait, to reflect before acting? But I could not. I was outraged and the evidence was here. I was told by the Queen’s steward that she was in her panelled cabinet room – the room where behind the 237 carved panels Queen Catherine keeps her jewels, her state papers, and some say her poisons.

Two guards stood outside. “I am here to see the Queen on business of utmost urgency,” I announced.

“She is resting.”

“She must see me.” There was silence. Then from behind me another voice said, “Did you not hear the Queen of Scots?” I wheeled around. It was Robin MacClean. He had followed me. He looked most savage next to these guards in their silken hose and gold-embroidered waistcoats and doublets. Their hats were festooned with feathers, like mine. I despise men in feathers.

They immediately announced me, and I walked through the immense doors. Queen Catherine stood with her back to me. She appeared small and erect. Her head was bowed down as she spoke still with her back to me. “So what do you seek, Little Queen?” She turned slowly around to me. My fist tightened on the glove I held as I saw what the Queen had been looking at with her bowed head. Her own plump fingers were bright purple.

There were really no words exchanged. I merely held up the glove and said, “I believe that this belongs to your spy, Signore Marcellini. He has also left the mark of his lust on the breast and face of Mary Fleming.” The Queen blanched and then sank to the floor.

That is all that I write now. It is an eerie time here in the court.