DESTINY: A Story of Mary Queen of Scots and her lady-in-waiting Mary Seton

By Anne Kinsey

In the sixteenth century, when love was a tool of statecraft and marriage a political weapon, a rivalry between two queens ended when one of them faced the executioner.

Start reading and discover three fascinating women. Mary Queen of Scots, a woman revered as a martyr, condemned as a traitor, dazzlingly beautiful, and caught on the wrong side of a revolution. Queen Elizabeth I, declared a bastard in childhood, crowned queen of England at the age of twenty-five, and one of the most brilliant and enigmatic rulers in history. And finally, Mary Seton, whose life and destiny was entwined with both queens.

Here is the story of thwarted love, political marriages gone wrong, murders, plots of treason, long imprisonments, dramatic escapes, and a lifetime of loyalty.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anne Kinsey
• Release date: Nov 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452411194

Book preview

DESTINY

A Story of Mary Queen of Scots

and her lady-in-waiting

Mary Seton

Anne Kinsey

Published by Castell Books at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 by Anne Kinsey

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

PRELUDE

PART I: MARY SETON’S STORY

CHAPTER 1

INTERLUDE 1

CHAPTER 2

INTERLUDE 2

PART II: QUEEN MARY’S STORY

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

INTERLUDE 3

PART III: QUEEN ELIZABETH’S STORY

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

PART IV: MARY SETON’S STORY

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

POSTLUDE

AFTERWARD

Other Books by Anne Kinsey

PRELUDE

FOTHERINGAY CASTLE, ENGLAND, 1587

Thirteen-year-old Clare Paulet pushed aside the brocaded, pine-green bed curtains. She listened for a moment, and when she didn’t hear anything except the wind at the shutters, she reached for her slippers and robe. Once dressed, she lifted the night candle from the table beside her bed, and protecting the flame with her cupped hand, crept into the corridor.

It was one of those February nights when you know spring is coming. The chill was gone from the air and the corridor was less drafty, but the gray stone walls were cold to the touch with beads of moisture gathered in the crevices. The corridor was lit by torches set in metal holders along the wall. The floor rushes, rustling and crunching as she stepped over them, were mixed with rosemary and jasmine and gave off a spicy scent. The queen of Scotland, who was imprisoned in this castle, wanted the floor rushes to be clean and sweet smelling at all times. Even though she was a prisoner here, she was still treated like a queen and all such wishes were obeyed.

Once in the west wing, Clare paused on the threshold of Lady Mary Seton’s room. The door was opened wide enough for Clare to peek in. Lady Mary sat facing a window in a hard-backed chair under the light of a single wax candle. She sat so straight that her back didn’t touch the chair at all. The candlelight, reflected in the window, showed the lines of her face.

Lady Mary, Clare whispered.

She didn’t move. Then, a bit louder, Clare repeated, Lady Mary?

Mary Seton gave a slight jolt as if awakened from sleep and put her hand to her throat. You frightened me to death, child, she said.

I’m sorry.

It’s all right. We are all a little jumpy tonight. You may come in.

Mary Seton’s room was as austere as she was. The only decor was a single crucifix mounted over the bed and an assortment of ivory and pewter statues of the Virgin Mary near the corner where she knelt to pray each morning.

Is there any news? Lady Mary asked.

My father said that Queen Elizabeth still won’t sign the death warrant.

Mary Seton gave her head the slightest shake to show her amazement. Maybe she won’t sign it after all. The queen of England does what she pleases. She is as capricious as the wind. Lady Mary’s lips were a thin line, her pale, watery blue eyes hard and cold. It’s late, she said. You should be in bed.

I wanted to bring you the news. I knew it would make you happy. Because Lady Mary spent her days with the queen of Scots and the queen’s other attendants, late at night was the only time Clare could catch her alone. She still couldn’t get over her amazement that the queen of Scots was here, in their castle. The queen, of course, had no time for Clare. Like everyone else, she suspected the end was near, so she spent her days writing letters. But sometimes, if Clare caught Lady Mary Seton all alone and in the right mood, she would sit with Clare and talk to her.

Now was evidently one of those times. You may stay for a few minutes, if you like. Lady Mary pointed to a nearby stool.

Clare sat down eagerly.

I suppose you want more stories, said Lady Mary.

Oh, I do! Thank you!

Something almost like a smile came to Lady Mary’s face. I suppose I need the diversion. Perhaps you’d like to hear about the queen’s wedding in Paris.

I would! It must have been magnificent!

It was indeed.

Please tell me about it!

The queen of Scots rode in a litter draped with white satin. She wore all white except a gold crown set with rubies and sapphires. A Swiss guard led the wedding parade. Musicians dressed in yellow and red played trumpets and drums. Thousands of people lined the streets of Paris, just to catch a glimpse of her.

Lady Mary’s voice was detached and she talked as if she were reciting a memorized speech, or performing a duty. She spoke as if the memories didn’t thrill her. Perhaps the wedding itself hadn’t thrilled her. Lady Mary was so reserved, it was hard to imagine her being thrilled by anything.

To keep Mary Seton talking, Clare said, The queen must have been so happy on her wedding day.

She was. I believe that was the happiest day of her life.

It occurred to Clare that Lady Mary always talked about the times when the queen was happy or afraid or in trouble. She never talked about herself. Were you happy then, too? Clare asked.

Me? Lady Mary blinked, as if startled by the question.

When were you happiest?

Mary Seton sat quietly, not moving at all. Clare thought she was remembering something she would share, but then she said, My life has been one of duty. I have served my queen, and this has been my sole happiness.

It was a correct, obligatory answer, but her voice sounded too tight and Clare suspected there were things she wasn’t telling. From Mary Seton’s stories, Clare already knew so much about the Scottish queen and her exciting life, beginning with how she became queen of Scotland when she was an infant, only a week old and her father died after facing the English in battle. But all Clare knew about Lady Mary was that she had been one of the famous four Marys, four little girls, all named Mary like the queen, who had been chosen to be her childhood playmates.

Lady Mary fingered the locket she wore at her waist. Clare knew she was overstepping and asking a question which was too personal, but she couldn’t resist: Whose picture do you wear?

My queen’s, of course. I wore this same locket, with a different picture of her, at her wedding in Paris.

She snapped open the locket to show a miniature of the Scottish queen. The picture, so different from the matronly white-haired queen imprisoned in Fotheringhay Castle, showed a young girl with a pretty oval-shaped face, sweetly curved bow-shaped lips, and amber eyes matching her golden red hair.

Is it a good likeness? Clare asked. Did she have such a sweet face?

No painting ever completely captured her beauty. You can see she was pretty, with lovely coloring, but her real beauty was in the light that shone in her eyes like a candle.

The facing picture in the locket was of a man. Unlike the queen’s other ladies-in-waiting, Mary Seton had never married. She had taken a vow of chastity and planned to enter a nunnery when the queen no longer needed her company. Clare assumed, therefore, that the man was a brother or nephew.

And the other picture? Clare asked.

Lady Mary looked into the locket. His name was Alexander Beaton. Before Clare could get a good look at the picture, Lady Mary closed the locket.

Alexander Beaton? said Clare. Wasn’t one of the four Marys named Mary Beaton?

Yes, said Mary Seton quietly. Alexander was her cousin.

Clare wondered if it could be that this pious lady had once had a lover. It occurred to her that if Mary Queen of Scots were a figure of romance, Lady Mary Seton was a mystery, an enigma.

Clare simply could not imagine the staid Mary Seton as a girl of fifteen at the queen’s wedding. Had she giggled and whispered secrets, like other girls? Or, as lady-in-waiting to a child queen, had she, even then, been reserved and quiet?

PART I

MARY SETON

Are you not weary in your distant places,

Far, far from Scotland of the mists and storm;

In drowsy airs the sun smite on your face,

The days so long and warm?

When all around you lie strange hearts sleeping;

Those lands where no fond memories lie,

Do not your sad hearts over seas come leaping,

To the Highlands and the Lowlands of your home?

Scottish folk song

PARIS, 1558

CHAPTER 1

Mary Seton picked up her skirts and ran to the arched trellis leading to the formal palace gardens. She had pleaded a headache that morning to escape her duties. For the past week, in preparation for the queen’s wedding, she’d had to endure hour after hour of tiresome audiences and ceremonies. But this morning, with the sun shining and the sky a bright, cloudless blue, she couldn’t bear standing in her decorative place in the presence chamber any longer.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the orchards at the far end of the gardens. She had escaped. Nobody would find her here, in the thickets near the brook. The apple trees were in blossom, sweetening the air with their fragrance. In a grassy spot near the brook in the shade of a cluster of oaks, she took off her slippers and stockings and splashed her feet in the water.

She pulled off her heart-shaped cap and shook her head, freeing her hair. Her hair was the exact color of the sandy pebbles at the bottom of the brook. When she relaxed, as she was now, there was a sweet timidity about her face, but around other people she always held herself stiffly, her face tense, her expression austere.

Laughter rang out behind her. Startled, she scooped up her shoes and stockings and ducked behind a hedge. The laugh came again and she recognized Mary Fleming, another of the queen’s four Marys. She heard a man’s voice and even before catching a glimpse of his face, she knew that Mary Fleming’s companion was Henri, the Prince of Conde’s son.

Mary Fleming, the boldest of the queen’s four Marys, with bright blue eyes and shiny black hair, was proud of her close kinship to the Scottish queen. Although the line was illegitimate, she was the queen’s cousin, and was thus given precedence among the queen’s ladies.

Laughing, holding onto Henri’s arm, Mary Fleming moved into the sunshine of a small clearing, less then twenty feet from Mary Seton.

You know I shouldn’t be here. Mary Fleming lifted her fan as if to hide a blush.

Henri caught her arms. I had to see you again.

Mary Fleming said, My queen would think me disloyal if she knew I was here. How can I be disloyal to my queen?

What of your loyalty to me? You know I have loved you, longed for you—

Their talk irritated Mary Seton, who had no wish to witness the kind of scene she had seen many times before. Mary Fleming cared nothing for Henri. Flirting, her favorite pastime, was made all the more exciting for her because Henri was a Protestant and an enemy. Mary Seton ducked away so Mary Fleming and Henri wouldn’t see her when they emerged from behind the hedge. She glanced back once to see Mary Fleming put her arms around Henri’s neck.

Mary Seton sighed. There was simply no place she could go to escape and be alone. The life of a courtier was a public life, and Mary Seton found it tiring to be on her guard all the time. She needed time alone, when she could relax and look inward and bring order and calm to her inner world.

Once she was far enough away from Mary Fleming and Henri so that they wouldn’t find her, she sat on a smoothly polished marble bench facing a bed of white lilies.

But then a group of ladies emerged from the path. When they came close enough, Mary recognized them as attendants of Catherine de Medici, queen of France, who was soon to be Mary Queen of Scots’ mother-in-law. They were gossiping about the Scots noblemen who had recently arrived for the wedding, laughing about how rustic and ridiculous they were. They seemed not to know, or care, that Mary Seton was close enough to hear them talking, and that her own brother was among the Scots noblemen who had journeyed to France for the wedding. Or perhaps they knew she was nearby, and they wanted her to hear.

Such insults didn’t bother Mary Seton at all. She didn’t care what people said. What she didn’t like was being forced to give up her hope for a few moments of peace and privacy. After one last wistful look at the beds of graceful white irises, she reluctantly returned to her duties in the Scottish queen’s presence chamber.

That night was the first of the queen’s wedding celebrations. Mary Seton stood in the brightly lit ballroom surrounded by ladies whispering behind their fans. Glass chandeliers with thousands of candles lit the ballroom. The Scottish queen’s Guise relatives had ordered the decorations. Bouquets of roses and lilies were displayed in gilded vases and the balconies were hung with silken banners. Glittering high on the wall, the royal Scottish coat of arms was linked with the Guise emblem.

Mary Seton stood alone, as stiff as the marble pillar behind her, uncomfortable in her gown which was laced too tightly. She wore a midnight-blue velvet gown with an embroidered stomacher. The neck was square-cut and the long sleeves hung almost to the floor. She wore no jewelry except a small silver cross at her throat. Her waist was pinched because Mary Fleming had insisted on pulling her stays until she thought she’d faint. You’re pretty enough, Mary Fleming had said, but your lacing should be tighter. And you need more rouge or people will think you are not interested in dancing.

Maybe she isn’t interested in dancing, said Mary Beaton, another of the four Marys. Maybe she really likes sitting alone for hours. Maybe sitting in the gardens reading poetry really is more fun than dancing.

Mary Fleming was called the ‘flower of the Marys,’ and with her vibrant coloring, she was indeed striking. But Mary Beaton, with her pale blonde hair and soft gray eyes, had her share of admirers as well. Mary Beaton could usually be found trailing behind Mary Fleming, as if drawing energy from her.

Maybe she’s still dreaming of falling in love, Mary Fleming said.

No, no, said Mary Beaton. She prefers the convent and wants to be a nun.

Once, in a moment of indiscretion, Mary Seton made the mistake of telling Mary Fleming that she planned to marry for love. Mary Fleming had laughed at the absurdity of it. Only peasant girls marry for love, she had said. She’d been teasing Mary Seton about it ever since.

Mary Livingston, Mary Seton’s closest friend at court, came to her rescue. Leave her alone, she told the others. Just because she doesn’t like trouble, the way you do, only means she has more sense.

Now, in the brightly lit ballroom, Mary Seton watched as a gentleman of the king’s chamber approached Mary Fleming, and bowed to her from the waist. She accepted him with a curtsy, and they moved to the line of dancers forming at the center of the ballroom floor. The music picked up in tempo, and the gentlemen handed their swords to the nearest pages. Several of the Scotsmen who had come to France for the wedding now joined the dancers. Although not trained in court etiquette by the rigors of a French education, these Scottish noblemen knew well enough the meaning of courtly flattery.

Mary Fleming, one said, you are most bewitching.

The flower of the queen’s Marys, said another.

Mary Seton stood alone, watching the dancers. Then she saw a Scotsmen approach Mary Beaton, and talk familiarly with her. Most of the Scotsmen who had come to the wedding – including Mary Seton’s brother – wore French clothing. This man, though, wore animal-skin boots laced to the knees and a traditional Scottish fur mantle. He seemed completely out of place amid the elaborate décor, and not just because of his clothing. There was something in his expression which marked him as one who observed closely. His eyes were soft brown, his features gentle, but there was a strength in the set of his jaw and intelligence in his eyes.

Mary Seton jumped to a tap on her arm.

Mary Livingston laughed. Sorry to startle you. What were you thinking about?

Mary Seton managed to shake her head, as if at nothing. She wanted to meet the man who was standing with Mary Beaton, but she had long ago formed the habit of hiding her intimate thoughts even from her closest friends.

I have to keep an eye on you. Maybe Mary Fleming is right. If not for us, you would fade into the walls. Mary Livingston took her arm and led her into the thickest part of the crowd. You have absolutely no business standing alone.

A group of courtiers and wedding guests moved to admit them.

Mary Seton looked up to see a thin man about thirty with a long face and strong features watching her. A moment passed before she realized that he was an Englishman, Christopher Norton, the eldest son of Earl Norton. This was the man her family wanted her to marry. Mary’s stomach lurched at the sight of him and she wished she could slip away and vanish. She looked around, but there was no hope of escape.

Norton smiled at her. There was nothing wrong with the way he smiled, and some might even think him handsome, but something about him, which Mary Seton could not define, repulsed her.

He walked toward her. I thought I recognized you, he said. Surely you remember me?

Of course, she said stiffly.

Mary Fleming joined them. She couldn’t have known about the marriage negotiations, but she did know Norton’s rank. Mary Fleming watched as Norton reached for Mary Seton’s hand.

You are even lovelier than I remembered, Lady Mary, he said.

Mary Seton nodded to acknowledge the compliment and then withdrew her hand.

When Norton turned away to talk to another gentleman who joined them, Mary Fleming touched Mary Seton’s elbow and whispered, Don’t you know who he is?

"Don’t you remember what happened the last time he