Queen Mary's Daughter

by Emily-Jane Hills Orford

  Gran had waved aside her concerns. “I have a little money,” she admitted. “And when that runs out, there is always your father’s treasure.”

  “If we can find it,” the princess had pointed out. She had never worried about money while she was growing up. There always seemed to be an abundance of everything: food, clothes, private schooling, riding lessons, archery, fencing lessons, and so much more. She had never questioned where the money came from. Would Gran have told her if she had asked? Probably not. Now that Mary Elizabeth was starting to get a grip on this whole time travel thing, she was starting to believe that there were a lot of things in her past (which was in the future) that were not as simple as they appeared. She was starting to add things up in her head, thinking that perhaps Gran was a master time travelling Bonnie and Clyde, without Clyde of course.

  She would have to be content with her grandmother’s reasoning for now. If there was money for the presently mounting expenses, that was all that mattered. And they couldn’t go looking for Lord Bothwell’s treasure anytime soon. They were headed in the opposite direction, and they were moving at a snail’s pace, in Mary Elizabeth’s estimation. She had to admit that she missed some of the conveniences of the twenty-first century —running water, hot baths, the usual, but also the faster means of transportation. Not that she didn’t enjoy a good ride on her horse, Queenie, but she wished they could make the trek a little bit faster.

  The princess pulled her thick cloak more firmly across her front. The fur-lined collar and lining made the cloak quite suitable for this chilly weather. Draped elegantly over Queenie’s flanks, it fell to the princess’s ankles, keeping all of her extremities covered and protected from the elements. It fastened at the neck with a stunning ruby brooch and her arms escaped the confines by small slits at the side. But without a belt or a more contemporary manner of keeping the cloak closed, her middle section was often left uncovered, especially if she twisted around in her saddle to check on the army’s progress behind her, as she had just done.

  “I miss my parka,” she groaned. “And my down-filled vests and warm woolly hats and mitts.”

  “Stop your grumbling,” Gran scolded. “You are much better dressed than some of your soldiers back there and you do not hear them complaining.”

  “Aye. You are right, as always.”

  They rode in companionable silence, taking in the warmth of the sunlight, so seldom seen even in early April. The time had passed quickly since Mary Elizabeth had first met her mother, but she had seen her again. She had jumped back in time during the evenings when she was sure she was alone. She had met her mother in the various castles of her lengthy captivity in England; first Dundrennan Abbey, where the queen had only stayed a night after her escape from the tragic battle at Langside. That had been in May of 1568, a gloomy month with incessant rains and cold weather. Later the queen had crossed over the Solway Firth into England, staying first at Workington Hall and then at Carlisle Castle.

  Mary Elizabeth had stepped in as one of her mother’s lady’s maids, until such time as the queen might accept her as her daughter. It would be difficult to explain how a twenty-something year old young lady could appear just a few years after she was born. It had been an interesting sojourn of sorts and Mary Elizabeth had come to see another side of her mother, one missed by the historians. She was definitely not the weak, tragic female who fell for any available man with good looks. And, sadly, she was dedicated to her purpose: seeking her cousin, Queen Elizabeth’s help in regaining the throne of Scotland. That was not to be. In fact, the English Queen moved Queen Mary further away from the Scottish border to prevent an unwanted uprising in the north.

  Mary Elizabeth jumped back many times to Bolton Castle, a rather small castle, but one in which the Scottish Queen was allowed a certain amount of freedom. The princess even enjoyed a day hunting with her mother on the castle grounds. She was amazed at her mother’s retinue of servants, who continued to care for her at Bolton. With restricted space, however, only thirty of her fifty-one knights, servants, and ladies-in-waiting could be accommodated in the castle itself. The others had to take lodgings nearby.

  After six months at Bolton, the queen was moved again, to Tutbury Castle, then Sheffield Castle, Wingfield Manor, and Chatsworth House. Each move reduced Queen Mary’s staff and her freedom. As Mary Elizabeth visited her mother in each of these prisons, her heart ached more and more as she witnessed the growing light of defeat overtake not only the Scottish Queen, but her greatly limited living quarters, staff, and freedom.

  Remembering her most recent visit with her mother, Mary Elizabeth started humming a tune she had heard her mother sing. She recited the words out loud:

  Lord, grant your mercy unto me:

  Teach me some way that he may know

  My love for him is not an empty show,

  But purest tenderness and constancy.

  For does he not, alas, ev'n now possess

  This body and this heart which would not flee

  Discord, dishonour, nor uncertainty,

  Nor family hurt, nor evil's worst distress.

  For his sake, I value all my friends as dust

  And in my enemies I seek to place my trust.

  For him, my conscience and good name to chance I've cast.

  I would renounce the world, were it his whim:

  I'd gladly die if it should profit him.

  What more is there to prove my love steadfast?

  “Your mother wrote that, did she not?” Gran asked when the princess finished.

  Mary Elizabeth nodded her head, gazing over the horizon that had opened before them as they crested yet another hill. A meandering path, a road of sorts, wove its way down into a large expanse of valley, layered with thick, green growth and early colourful spring wildflowers. “Aye,” the princess finally answered. “It is one of her sonnets. She wrote quite a few. Some are in the papers she gave me, tucked away in the treasure box that I always carry.”

  “She was quite talented and creative.” Her grandmother reached down to pat her horse’s neck fondly. The princess watched her grandmother affectionately. They were both enjoying the gentle ride through the countryside. For the most part, it was restful and gratifying as well. Especially when the locals rushed out to greet them with great enthusiasm, cheering them along. “Had she not been a queen,” Gran continued, “she could have been a great writer, a composer, or an artist. You have her talents as well. All you need is the time to nurture them.”

  “And the patience.” Mary Elizabeth chuckled softly. “I do not think I will ever have my mother’s patience to sit for hours on end working on some needlepoint project. I never did like working with needle and thread, did I?”

  “No, you did not.” Gran shared her granddaughter’s chuckle. “I have to confess, I never did either. I would much rather be out and about doing things, like this.”

  “You mean traipsing across the countryside, hoping against hope that we do not fall into a trap?”

  Jamie galloped back from the front of the troop, interrupting their conversation. “We shall camp just beyond the next village,” he informed the ladies. “I have sent men ahead to set up the tents.” Looking at the princess, he added, “You are within a day’s ride of London. We need to discuss your strategy this evening.”

  “Perhaps we should just head to Greenwich,” Mary Elizabeth offered. “She is always there with her court. It is her favorite palace.”

  Jamie just nodded and spun his horse around to return to the front of the cavalcade.

  “I suppose you have been there as well,” Gran noted in little more than a whisper, just loud enough for her granddaughter to hear.

  Mary Elizabeth said. “I am a fly on the wall, remember?”

  Gran just shook her head. “I should have known,” she muttered under her breath. Now that her granddaughter knew her talent for time travel, she was jumping all over time and space, or so it seemed. “Just be careful, Granddaughter. You do not want to get d
isoriented in your travels.”

  “Yes, Grandmother.” The young woman reached across the expanse to pat her grandmother affectionately, trying to reassure her that she knew what she was doing.

  “So tell me about it,” Gran prodded. “Tell me about Greenwich and the English Queen who people say never seems to age.”

  The princess just laughed. “But she does age, Grandmother. Unlike you, who are timeless in so many ways. She just dresses so elaborately and plasters her face with white powder so that no one can see the wrinkles marking her face. And she has the most glamorous wigs. Ridiculously ostentatious, if you ask me.”

  “And she always wears white, I have heard, to reinforce her image as the Virgin Queen.”

  Mary Elizabeth muffled a bit of a snort, catching herself with the reminder that it would be unbecoming of a princess to snort. “I am quite sure she is anything but a virgin. Anyway, you are right, Grandmother. She was dressed in white. I must have arrived at some sort of official function. It was a Sunday.”

  “The greatest day of the week. A great number of nobility were there, I presume.”

  “Oh, yes. There was a gentleman standing at the door of the presence chamber through which the queen would pass on her way to chapel. He was dressed in velvet with a gold chain. I am not sure what exact label to apply to him, but he announced everyone of importance who arrived to see the queen. It was a grand procession that entered through that door. There were gentlemen of all description; barons, earls, knights of the garter. These men were all richly dressed and bare-headed. They were followed by the Chancellor, who carried a red silk purse which I presume held the important seals and the Royal Sceptre. Another Chancellor, as I presume that was what he was, carried the Sword of State in a red sheath, studded with golden fleur-de-lis.”

  “And then came the queen herself.”

  “Yes, all decked with jewels sparkling radiantly around her neck, on her hands, and draping down the front of a white silk dress, over which was draped a black silk cloak studded with silver threads. She wore a wig, of that I am quite sure. It did not look real, though it was red, like the real hair she once wore with pride. She had a crown upon her head and pearl drops hanging from her ears. But she appeared terribly old. If you were to get close, you would see the deep-set wrinkles underneath the thick white powder she had plastered all over her face.”

  “And she was accompanied by the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of London, leading the way to the queen’s chapel.” Gran finished the princess’s description quite aptly. “And, of course, the never absent Robert Dudley.”

  “You were there.” The princess shifted in her saddle to look her grandmother in the eye. Gran had moved her head to avoid eye contact, appearing to look over the landscape around them. “You were there. Admit it.”

  With a deep sigh, Gran nodded imperceptibly. “Yes, Mary Elizabeth, I was there. I know I should trust you, and I do, but I still worry. Do not be cross. If you must know, Jamie was there, too. And Mrs. D. I mean, Lady Mary Catherine.”

  “My trusted guardian angels.” The princess chuckled softly. “I should have known you three would not let me out of your sight.”

  “And the crowds greeted the queen with chants of Long Live the Queen.” Gran finished Mary Elizabeth’s description of her visit to Greenwich Palace. “And some day they will chant that for you as well.”

  “They already chant Long Live Princess Mary Elizabeth of Scotland.” Lady Mary Catherine chuckled from her mount plodding behind Mary Elizabeth and her grandmother. She had been listening all along. Was there no privacy to be had now that she was royalty?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  FOTHERINGAY CASTLE, FEBRUARY EIGHTH, YEAR OF OUR LORD 1587

  “Take my gloves. Take my rosary. Give them to my cousin. But first I will take these things with me as I lay my head down and prepare to meet my Maker.”

  She allowed her lady’s maid to pull on her favorite gloves, the white silk gloves that seemed to melt into her skin. She had already dressed in her gown and cape. The cape would be removed before she knelt at the block, but she would never pay homage to the block; only to her Maker, and only the Crucifix could symbolise her faith. Her rosary beads helped her focus on the prayers, her supplications. She needed to keep her faith right to the end. As frightening as it was to lay one’s neck on the block, what would come after was a paradise like no other, of that she was sure.

  She was handed her beads just as a knock on the door signalled the time. There was nothing but God’s time and she was about to join in the infinity of God’s time – forever and ever after.

  “After the deed is done.” She nodded. Yes, it was time. She stood in front of one lady after the other, gently wiping away the tears that streaked down their faces before giving them a hug. Queens did not usually hug their ladies, but these were unusual circumstances. She thanked each one in turn and faced the guard who had opened the door and stood waiting to escort her outside. Her confessor walked beside her, chanting the Lord’s Prayer. The queen and her ladies mouthed the words and marched slowly in procession, their silent footsteps falling in unison with the rhythm of the words.

  The group reached the doorway to the courtyard and paused briefly. It was a dull grey day, the trees barren of foliage as it was still the cold months of winter. A brisk wind had picked up and flapped the queen’s cloak. The scaffold was ready, the block positioned to face the crowd that had gathered in spite of the ominous weather.

  “It is time,” the queen mouthed. She told her ladies to wait by the door. She would walk the last few steps and mount the scaffold with only her Confessor and the guard. The executioner was already in place, his sword sharp and ready, gleaming in the eerie morning light. She had asked for a sword, not an axe. A sword, if rendered by an efficient French swordsman, would be quick and painless.

  Mounting the scaffold, she offered her forgiveness to the executioner, adding the few words, in French, as he was French, “Et le render rapide.”

  Make it quick.

  The Confessor blessed her, making the sign of the cross on her forehead. She removed her cloak and handed it to him. She kept her gloves on and her rosary beads moved swiftly through her fingers as she uttered every prayer she knew in rapid succession. She knelt before the block and lay her tender neck on its well-worn surface. Closing her eyes, she stretched her hands wide beside her, posturing as a novice in the pose of a cross.

  The swoosh of the blade was swift, but it bounced off the back of her neck. Her voice, still whispering the prayers, cracked at the sharpness of the blade. Tears threatened to escape the corners of her tightly closed eyes. She heard a second swoosh and felt the impact again on her neck. But she still breathed and she still prayed. And it hurt terribly.

  “Take me, Lord,” she almost cried out loud, but her disciplined voice continued to recite the prayers she had learned as a child, the prayers that had soothed and comforted her for so many years. She could feel the trickle of blood down the back of her neck. She wanted to wipe it away. Her arms trembled noticeably as she struggled to maintain her pose.

  The swoosh came again, the third stroke. It seemed to take forever to meet its mark. She felt her head roll, but her lips continued to mouth the precious prayers. Her eyes jolted open for one last glimpse of what she would leave behind. As her head came to a stop at the base of the scaffold, she glanced up at her now headless body, shock piercing her vision as she saw the blood-splattered white gown, the blood-splattered white gloves, and the rosary beads that remained wrapped around one hand as the arms dropped, lifeless, to hang over the sides of the block. It was not over quickly. Her head was severed, but her lips continued to move for many minutes as the queen prayed on.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  APPROACHING LONDON, SUMMER, YEAR OF OUR LORD 1587

  The shadows of evening spread across the campsite, stretching into large, ominous shapes replicating the tents. Lights glowed inside the main tent where Jamie, Gran, Lady Mary Catherine,
and Lord Thomas Percy, the unrecognised Earl of Northumberland, whose men had followed them south, and his eldest son, another Thomas, gathered over the late dinner of rabbit stew while they discussed strategies.

  “You cannot just walk in there like a visiting royal cousin,” Jamie pointed out bluntly.

  “But that is just it, is it not?” The princess held her audience captive, allowing her eyes to flash from one person seated at her table to the next, holding their gaze until she knew for sure they listened intently to what she had to say. “I am a visiting royal cousin.”

  “But she does not believe you, your Highness,” Young Thomas muttered under his breath. He was inexperienced, but not quite as young as the princess. This was his first campaign away from his sheltered upbringing in Northumberland and he hoped to make a good impression on the Scottish princess, not to mention his father, whom he always strove to please. He was tall, like his father, with a gentle face that conflicted with his riotous red, curly hair, a sure sign that there was some Scotch blood in this Northumberland lord-in-waiting. He also blushed easily, and he was blushing a lot these days.

  Mary Elizabeth chose to overlook the blushing. She observed as he took a deep breath, potentially to bolster his courage, before making eye contact with her, the blush continuing to creep up his neck and color his face. “All of our spies say the same thing. Queen Elizabeth believes you are a fraud.”