Queen Mary's Daughter

by Emily-Jane Hills Orford

  “Oh my!” Mary Elizabeth gasped.

  “Take off your Scottish attire and slip this on. We’ll keep your things here until you leave.”

  Mary Elizabeth gently pulled off the brooch that held the plaid tartan in place. She held onto the brooch, not wanting to entrust it to anyone else’s care but her own. She unbuckled her vest and slipped it off, followed by the lightweight gown.

  Lady Jane’s eyebrows arched upwards significantly when she viewed the now scantily clad young woman. Mary Elizabeth stood in her underwear and tall, black leather boots, quite the image for a runway model of the twenty-first century. However, the lacy and scanty underwear, although appropriate for the twenty-first century woman, was hardly what a woman would wear in the sixteenth century. Even her boots, practical though they were, didn’t fit the picture of a noblewoman of the time.

  “Oh my!” her mother’s maid gasped. “You must remove those…” She waved at Mary Elizabeth. “You must remove those boots and the garments as well. The dress will reveal what you wear underneath, and I do not know what it will suggest about those…things.”

  Mary Elizabeth did as she was told, tugging off her boots first before removing her undergarments. She now stood stark naked, shivering in the bitterly cold room. Lady Jane handed Mary Elizabeth some light linen petticoats decorated with pretty flowers embroidered in white silk thread around the legs. Mary Elizabeth quickly pulled them on. Meanwhile, Lady Jane lifted the dress, placing her hands into the top opening, prepared to slide it over Mary Elizabeth’s head.

  “Lift your arms over your head,” she instructed. Mary Elizabeth did as she was told and the maid slid the dress down her arms and over her head. She tugged at it lightly and the skirt fell to the floor. “Turn around and I will tighten the laces up the back.”

  Mary Elizabeth couldn’t help but feel like a princess. As she felt Lady Jane tug at the straps that wove elegantly down her back to fasten the gown, she allowed her hands to smooth down her sides, feeling the luxury of the garment. She immediately understood the need for nothing underneath the gown. “It fits like a glove,” she noted.

  Lady Jane reached into a treasure box that sat on the ledge over the hearth. “Here,” she said, reaching around Mary Elizabeth and fastening a chain around the young Princess’s neck. A deep ruby Labradorite crystal encased in a finely cut, silver mount dangled over Mary Elizabeth’s chest, its weight bearing in mind the importance of who she was and what she was about to do.

  “It belonged to your mother,” Gran said. “I remember it well. I gave her the necklace. I sent it over to France shortly after she married the Dauphin. The dress is French lace. She sent me a miniature painting of her in the gown wearing the pendant. You look just like her, just like your mother.” Turning to Lady Jane, she gave her nod of approval. “Good. She looks good. But her hair.”

  Mary Elizabeth started to fasten the brooch to her dress. Lady Jane waved her hands away and, taking the brooch, fastened it near the waist, off to one side. “You do not want it to capture too much attention.” The princess nodded. “I understand that it is something precious to you and you do not want to let it out of your sight for one minute. So, here–” She patted the girl on the waist where the brooch was now attached, “–is the best place for it to be.”

  Lady Jane nodded at the princess before turning back to the treasure box. She reached inside and pulled out several combs. Mary Elizabeth perched on a stiff-backed chair that had seen better days and allowed Lady Jane to pull the large comb through her tangled mess of hair. She had allowed it to grow long; her grandmother had all but forbidden her to ever cut it like her young friends did, and Mary Elizabeth would never have dreamed of trying a spike hair design with dyed purple hair like her most rebellious of friends. She had always been conservative in her tastes and she had to admit that she took a bit of pride in her long, thick, reddish-brown hair.

  “Ouch!” Mary Elizabeth jumped, trying not to shriek. She knew the danger of making too much noise.

  “When is the last time you had your hair properly combed?” Lady Jane asked. “It is full of knots.”

  “I do not recall,” Mary Elizabeth confessed, suffering yet another vicious tug to loosen a stubborn knot.

  The task finally complete, Lady Jane pulled Mary Elizabeth’s hair back and tied it loosely at the back. She tucked the combs snuggly against the young woman’s head, making what appeared to be a stylised crown.

  “You are ready.” Lady Jane stepped back to observe the finished look.

  “Not quite.” Mary Elizabeth lifted up the dress slightly to reveal her bare feet.

  “Oh yes.” Lady Jane clapped her hands. “Something for the feet.” She busied herself sorting through items in a large trunk next to the hearth. “Here.” She pulled out the daintiest slippers, decorated with more embroidery. “Slip these on.”

  Mary Elizabeth wasn’t sure about the slippers—they were tiny—but she did as instructed. The slippers stretched to accommodate her foot; comfortable, but not warm.

  “Hand me that cloak,” Gran instructed, pointing to a long, black cloak that lay over some furniture. “That will suffice. My clothing is otherwise appropriate.”

  “I think we are ready,” Lady Jane announced. “I will take you to the queen.”

  “I will stay here,” Mrs. D suggested. “You do not need extra bodies traipsing around the castle, raising suspicion. I will gather what we need from this room and be prepared to leave when you return. Now go.” She shooed the other three women out of the room and pushed the door shut behind them.

  “This way.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  FOTHERINGAY CASTLE, FEBRUARY, YEAR OF OUR LORD 1587

  She knelt in the corner at a stark wooden prie-dieu, a small altar. It was a typical adornment designated for a lady of her rank and privilege to make her petitions to God in the privacy of her own chambers. Her fingers hastened over a long string of rosary beads, her head bowed in prayer before the stark figure of Christ on the cross hanging on the wall over the prie-dieu. A single candle sat on one end of the prie-dieu, its lingering flame casting eerie shadows of the crucifix against the far wall. Next to the candle lay her open missal, ready for use, but obviously not required as she made the devotions by rote, eyes firmly closed. The rest of the room was dark and cold, the hearth having lost its lustre and warmth, the other candles burnt to their nibs.

  She heard the door open, but made no move to finish her prayers. She would complete the general rote of prayers that had held her steadfast in her faith and belief in her innocence as one of God’s rightfully anointed queens, a mere fate of birth.

  A woman, dressed in black stood up from where she knelt near the queen and indicated with a finger to her lips to stand quietly while they waited. Obligingly they stood by the door, Lady Jane having pushed it silently closed behind them.

  The minutes passed and the queen continued to pray. She reached the end of the beads and reflectively made the sign of the cross, several times, as if once couldn’t possibly be enough. Another murmured supplication and she pushed herself off the kneeler before facing the ladies standing near the door.

  “Enter,” she commanded in a soft, almost silky voice. “Lady Mary.” She waved her hand towards the woman who had motioned for silence. “Stir the coals in the hearth and light some candles. We have much to discuss this night. It is my last night and I will not waste it with sleep.”

  As Lady Mary followed her instructions, the queen motioned the others forward. “Lady Jane.” She nodded toward their guide. “You have found her. And my mother as well. A job well done. Thank you.”

  Lady Jane curtsied and stepped toward the hearth to assist Lady Mary. “Mother.” Queen Mary greeted her mother first. “I still cannot understand this jaunting through time. I know you have explained it to me, but I still find it difficult to believe that you are my dearly departed mother. You died while I was in France and yet you still visit me, not looking a day older than myself. How can this b
e?” She waved her hand in front of her face. “It does not matter. You are here now, in my time of need. Come sit with me. I am weary of this world, weary of this life.”

  The queen took a seat by the hearth now shooting up fine flames, giving both heat and light. The flickering caused multiple shadows to cross the queen’s face, making her look older than her forty-five years. She had not aged well with so many years in captivity, and her dour costume did her no justice. Gran took the seat opposite her daughter. Mary Elizabeth continued to stand, unsure what to do next. Her grandmother had not curtsied. Should she?

  “Come here child.” Queen Mary waved her forward. “I have waited a lifetime in captivity for this moment.”

  Mary Elizabeth took several steps toward the queen, and then stopped and presented her most graceful curtsy. Gran had taught her well and the gown she now wore suited the graceful manoeuvre.

  The queen reached for Mary Elizabeth’s hand and took it in hers. “You look just as I once did. So young, so beautiful, so eager and full of life. And to think that you almost did not live. You were so tiny when I first held you in Loch Leven Castle. But you were there as well, were you not? You were the young lady who rescued yourself as a tiny baby, are you not?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Mary Elizabeth answered with respect.

  “You must call me Mother,” Queen Mary insisted. “For that is what I am—your mother. And, at least for tonight, we can be mother and daughter. For tomorrow, they will execute me for crimes I did not commit.”

  “No.” Mary Elizabeth couldn’t stifle her groan. “I have always wanted to meet my mother. Gran, I mean Grandmother, always told me that my mother was dead.”

  “And, I suppose you could say,” Gran pointed out, “that in the twenty-first century your mother was dead, and for quite a few centuries at least.”

  Mary Elizabeth blushed slightly at her grandmother’s usual wit. She was truthful to a fault and would never be caught in a lie. She hadn’t lied to Mary Elizabeth all of those years; she just hadn’t told her the entire truth.

  The queen studied her daughter fondly. “Your grandmother always did have a way of making truths out of non-truths. That does not matter now. What matters is that I prepare you as best I can for the life you will lead. You will be queen – a queen like no other, of that I am sure.” She motioned to Lady Mary. “Another chair, please. We have much to discuss and I cannot have my daughter standing beside me all night.”

  Lady Mary obliged and pulled a stiff-backed wooden chair toward the hearth, positioning it near the queen. Mary Elizabeth nodded her thanks and sat. It was not comfortable, but at least she was off her feet for the moment.

  “My brother.” Mary Elizabeth’s expression reflected her confusion. “He is already King of Scotland. And some day he will rule both Scotland and England.”

  “You are assuming my cousin will name him heir,” Queen Mary mused. “Perhaps she does have no one else.” She sat quietly, running her hands over the rosary beads still clasped in her lap. “I suppose you already know what happens.”

  Mary Elizabeth nodded. “And it is not good for Scotland. Not now and definitely not in the future. In the twenty-first century, the Scottish people are fighting for their independence. They want an end to English dominance and tyranny.”

  More silence. “Is that what happens, then?” Both Mary Elizabeth and her grandmother nodded. “Well then, my dear daughter, you have your work cut out for you. But of course there is no guaranteeing that what you do in your lifetime as Queen Mary Elizabeth of Scotland will affect much, if any, of the future. Your descendants may choose to join England, or one of James’ descendants may do battle and reclaim Scotland as part of English territory. All you can do is make things right for the present and hope the best for the future.”

  The queen reached across the arm of her chair, leaving her rosary beads dangling from the other hand. She grasped Mary Elizabeth’s hand and held it firmly. “You, my child, must be strong. I know Mother has taught you well in all that you need to know, but some things cannot be taught. Learn from my mistakes. Never let your heart rule. Always rule with your head. And trust no one, especially a man. All they want is to claim your kingdom as theirs.”

  Mary Elizabeth gasped. She hadn’t expected her mother, a sixteenth century ruling monarch, to talk so rashly.

  “Well, sorry to say, it is true.” Queen Mary released her daughter’s hand. “I have allowed my heart to rule, first with François, my childhood sweetheart, then with that Darnley fellow my dear cousin sent to entrap me, and finally with your father, the strong, rugged Scotsman, who adored me. Or at least I thought so at the time. I understand he was quite insane when he died. Imprisonment can do that to a person. I have kept my faith and that is all that has kept me sane.” She gazed pensively into the flames that licked their way through the logs in the hearth. “You will be a great queen, my darling daughter. Much greater than our cousin, Elizabeth. Do not allow anyone to get the better of you. Be strong. Be sure. And be ever true to your faith.”

  “I have brought her up cognisant of many different ways of worshipping,” Grandmother confessed.

  The queen sat up straight. “You mean she has not been baptised into the one true faith?”

  “No, daughter. Princess Mary Elizabeth is not Roman Catholic. Having lived in the twentieth and twenty-first century, I can tell you first hand that the only way to succeed as a ruler in this time and in the future, is to demonstrate religious tolerance. If we do not, then our world is doomed. There are many ways of believing and there is no right way to believe.”

  “That sounds blasphemous coming from you, Mother.” The queen was noticeably shaken by this revelation.

  “Perhaps to you and many other Roman Catholics of this era.” Mary Elizabeth noticed her grandmother lean forward, a sign she knew so well, a sign that indicated she was about to impart on some of her overwhelming knowledge. And now that she knew her grandmother had over four hundred years of knowledge and experience, she felt assured that whatever she shared was both vital and important. Before continuing, Gran winked at her granddaughter, almost as if she could read minds and knew what the younger woman was thinking.

  “I am quite sure even the Pope of the twenty-first century would have been excommunicated had he lived in this era. But times change, and even the Roman Catholics have learned, slowly albeit, that we must all be tolerant of other religious beliefs. We must welcome and accept people of all faiths, even if we do not agree with them. It is the only way to work effectively toward world peace. Our pope, the pope of the twenty-first century, has insisted that we cannot reject people based on their beliefs and still call ourselves Christians.”

  Queen Mary sat quietly, pondering her mother’s words. She shuffled in her seat, obviously as uncomfortable on the wooden chairs as Mary Elizabeth felt. She cast a glance at her daughter before turning back to her mother. “I did try to be lenient with my subjects,” she confessed. “I cannot abide violence in the name of our Savior. However, I was not about to give up my own faith and the way I wanted to worship, the way I believed in my God. Leniency and universal acceptance must work in both directions. Otherwise, we are all hypocrites.”

  “True enough,” Gran agreed. “Now, enough about religion. We, I mean you, have other matters to discuss.”

  The queen nodded. She returned her attention to her daughter. “I can tell my mother has taught you well in French. You speak it fluently and obviously understand it as well. Can you read French?” Mary Elizabeth nodded. The queen waved her right hand at Lady Mary and the woman quickly brought over a casket and handed it to the queen. She switched the tiny lock in the top and opened the lid. She pulled out a sheet of paper, marked with elegant strokes of penmanship, and handed it to her daughter. “Read it to me.”

  “You wrote this?” Mary Elizabeth asked. The queen nodded and waved at the young woman to proceed with her instructions. Mary Elizabeth obliged and started to read the eloquent French passage with ease.


  “Now translate it into English,” Queen Mary insisted.

  “On this day, the seventh day of February, in the year of our Lord 1587, I commit myself and my faith to the Almighty and the promise of everlasting life. My dear brother, King Henry of France, brother to my sadly deceased first husband, the Dauphin Francis, who was also King before his untimely death, I beseech you to understand and know the truth of what happened. I have been tried and found guilty of treason, but my accusers have made it clear that my fate is a result of my faith. Lord Kent told me bluntly, and I quote him word for word, 'Your life would be the death of our religion, your death would be its life.' It makes me feel stronger knowing I have upheld my faith against all odds and that the general well-being of my church, the Roman Catholic Church, is dependent, to some degree, on my life.”

  “Enough.” The queen stopped the recitation bluntly. “This letter will be sent to the King of France. There are others. You may read them all and learn from them. There are some in Latin. You do speak and read Latin?” Mary Elizabeth nodded. “Good. And you speak Gaelic as well, I understand.” Mary Elizabeth nodded again. “I should have taken the time to learn the native tongue of my people. I was too proud, too determined to be the ever dominant and powerful ruler. It is not a position of luxury, my child.” She patted Mary Elizabeth’s hand affectionately and took back the letter, folding it carefully before locking it away in the casket. Lady Mary handed the queen a large leather bag with a carry strap. The bag was well worn, perhaps used on multiple missions to carry important items and documents. Queen Mary placed the casket inside the bag and handed it to her daughter. “Take this. Read it all and keep it safe until the letters are delivered as they should be. And remember to rule with your head and not your heart, although your heart should reach out to your subjects and, at all cost, put them and their well-being before your own.”