Tragic Crown

Frankly, I barely remember my own coronation--hardly surprising, given I was only a week old.

Born a Queen: seems I was destined for greatness, doesn't it? Well, a week after my birth, my father the King, ill and bedridden, was said to have woefully bemoaned:

"It cam wi' a lass and it will gang wi' a lass," before breathing his last breath.

Imagine the spectacle afterward: a newborn baby girl in the somber gloom of Holyrood Chapel, crying and wailing while she's anointed, the weighty crown placed on her tiny head to the drone of sacramental Words.

It cam wi' a lass and it will gang wi' a lass.

But I would show him, for I would beget a line of party-boys (of ambiguous sexuality) who would rule not only Scotland, but England too as a United Kingdom, the Stuart Dynasty!

In great style, too: my son James would throw parties in London the likes of which had never been seen; Van Dyck would paint portraits of my grandson.

My mother, the illustrious Marie de Guise, had greatness: she fought my fathers battles on the home front (against the rising movement of Protestant rebels, discontented with our continental catholic heritage), while the King warred abroad.

My father, James the Fifth of Scotland, had greatness too, but I never knew him--so, little good it did me. Except for that Title--which you shall see the results of. Myself and my politics, however, waxed grander in scope than either of them, living a tragic destiny neither could imagine.

Frankly,

I barely felt my own beheading--

it was merciful that way.

Let me tell you how it happened.

WHO WAS I?

Mary Stuart never could write proficiently in English or Scots, despite an otherwise polyglot training. So it's from here in my Present Life that I'll attempt to act as translator of her words. Now, on the other side of the gender pool, and on the opposite end of the socioeconomic spectrum--much has changed. Yet whenever in this life I feel discontented with my lot, saying I haven't got enough money, or am unhappy with my occupation, I only have to think past my lifetime: there is reason to be happy that I am not in a situation where, despite (or because of) my High Position, rebellions and sedition were raised against my Person in my earliest infancy and childhood!

Certainly--

depose a four-year-old--

just because she's a girl!

ACT I: THE ROYAL NURSERY

I was sent to France at the age of five years old, for my safety, using my mother's familial and political ties there. So I was promised in matrimony to the Dauphin Francois, then three years old: we were to unite the lands. The first place I remember staying was the Chateau de Saint-Germain-en-Laye.

In this life, I was eighteen years old when I left for France to help my ailing uncle, who had made a career there. It was help for him, and (as a poor kid from New Jersey like myself) a chance of a lifetime for me at an education. His apartment was in Saint-Germain-en-Laye, a few block's walk from the castle.

The castle pictured here, a historian of architecture would say, is not the castle I knew as Mary Stuart; this one was constructed over it by Louis XIII in the early seventeenth century. Time changes everything, even more so royal architects.

Oh beautiful and enchanted days of my girlhood in France! Everything had such luster, seeming so green and alive then. I formed part of the Royal Nursery at the Chateau de Saint-Germain-en-Laye, along with the little dauphin Francois, his sister Elizabeth de Valois, and the rest of the gang, including King Henry the Eighth's bastard son Henry Fitzroy. We formed a merry bunch.

Don't imagine we were playing with dolls, rattles, and toy horses. Sure, there was a bit of that, but we conversed and wrote in Latin, Greek, Italian and Spanish, writing notes to each other in ancient language which [we thought] was quite Ciceronian. Mastering music, mathematics, poetry, and for us girls of course: needlework. We were broken in like horses, and had to learn to break in horses too. It was then that I learned to read and write in cipher, very important later on.

Primed to be royals. Our times together were priceless.

If only I could express to you the rain of France, the sunshine, how green the forests and fields, bedecking this haven of love and joy I rejoiced to call my Home.

Queen Catherine de Medici was a very powerful woman at the French Court, and never seemed to look upon me favorably. Everyone else did. I believe she was turned against me by Madame de Paroy, an insidious gossip and, unfortunately, my governess.

When I was about twelve, I rid myself of that Gossip, who'd spread so many rumors about my being a spoiled and sinful girl who demanded the full control of my garde-robe. Spreading calumnies that hurt me. All it took was a well-written letter to my mother, another to my uncle the Cardinal of Lorraine, and she was discharged; someone more suitable was chosen to replace her. With Queen Catherine, still, the damage was done.

I was wed to Francois when we were teenagers--the little boy who looked up to me, whom I was always taller than. He had been my childhood playmate and schoolmate, so the transition into husband and wife, one day King and Queen, seemed a natural one.

That day came: Francois I died in injuries sustained in a jousting match, and his son was was crowned Francois II, with me by his side, the power of nations backing the fulfillment of our dreams and aspirations.

We once hijacked a division of Queen Elizabeth of England's army while it was passing through; she would never forget that one, even though it was really just a foolhardy adolescent adventure.

Anyway, we gave it back.

How I loved Francois with all my Heart, but also with all my Crown: our betrothal would unite Scotland and France. Grandiose reveries.

My first foretaste of my great misfortunes, was the death of my mother back home in Scotland: I learned of it via letter.

Even in the rain, the sunshine, and the green of France, I could only attempt to digest my grief when Francois himself died of an ear-infection which culminated in brain abscess not a half a year later. He was seventeen years old: without issue of our bodies.

Thus, the great Queen Catherine was quick to send me right back where I came from, seeing as I was of no use to them. I retained the title of Queen Dowager of France, though, which I was and am quite proud of.

Nonetheless, I had seen the fair land of France for the last time.

ACT II: HOLDING WOLVES BY THE EARS

Scotland, Holyrood Castle. A few years later.

Now picture this: I'm married again, this time to my cousin Henry Lord Darnley. I'm seven months pregnant with James, all counsel and business of state is over; the Four Marys and I, with the Lady Argyll and several noblemen are gathered in my chambers. David Rizzio, my trusted secretary and minstrel (an Italian) is strumming on the lute and singing an old song. We are dining, and I am on a strict meat-only diet, due to my pregnancy. I have always had a weakness for good food, fine cuisine, especially French food; my uncle the Cardinal of Lorraine remarked my tendency to overeat (just a little bit) in a letter to my mother, rest her soul.

"Your Majesty, won't you tell us," queried the Lady Argyll, "all about this unfortunate occurrence with the poet Pierre de Chastelard?"

"Madame, he was found hiding under my bed, that's the essential of it. Twice. Pierre de Bocosel de Chastelard conceived a mad passion for me; perhaps I was too enthusiastic in conversation with him, or he took love for his poetry as being for his person. He was a pupil of the great Ronsard, and could turn out quite a good sonnet."

"I hear Your Majesty banished him from Scotland, when he was found hiding under your bed that night, and confessed his undying devotion to you."

"He disobeyed the edict, returning two days later to emerge from under my bed again while I was undressing. He would accept no refusal, and tried force. Then I called for the guards, who rushed into the room and seized Pierre: I ordered he be killed there, before me. But my captain of the guard advised we proceed with all due process, lest it look like I had something to hide."

"So you had him beheaded, of course, Your Majesty. I think it exactly the right response to such an assault."

"I do as well. Now let's speak of something else or not speak at all."

The pains of gestation do not assail me at this moment, and we eat, sometimes chatting, while David strums along, filling me with wistful feelings of loss. I am thinking of France [I will always think of France]. It contrasts starkly with the present times, my drunken and foolish husband with his faithlessness, my bastard brother perpetually plotting against me, the wars of religion throughout the continent. But there is hope yet: in my body I feel the life of the baby that will secure the future of my dynasty. Still I held these wolves by the ears.

Sometimes one has to think outside one's lifetime.

Henry, my once-darling Darnley, enters without a knock but with downcast gaze. Not alone. A group of noblemen led by the Lord Ruthvan, burst through the door, swords and guns drawn. I rise instantly, and although my heart leaps to my throat, I stand above most of them at my full height of five foot eleven inches, glowering.

"Your Majesty," begins Lord Ruthven, "we only demand David Rizzio, the perpetrator of this outrage."

"Vous parlez de quel outrage? what outrage to you speak of? This is madness and of no legality. Am I to be obeyed as your rightful sovereign or no?"

"They speak everywhere, your Majesty, about the outrageous liberties this foreigner has been taking with your person."

What use reasoning with scoundrels?

There ensues a desperate scene. David shields himself behind my body pleading for mercy and protesting his innocence, thinking they would never dare strike their Anointed. Then, Patrick Belleden, himself brother of the Lord Justice Clerk, points his gun directly at my belly, big with child.

"They say this is the fruit of adulterous union," and he cocks the gun. "Now, step aside, Your Majesty."

At last I am forced aside, shoved by that rascal Patrick Belleden, choking on sobs and blinded with tears whilst they seize David and stab him some dozens of times before me, until the floorboards are pooled and stained with blood that would never wash away--my dress and face all bespattered: seven months pregnant, on a meat-only diet.

Then they cast his mangled cadaver down the stairs.

Blasted from the pulpit with much spit.

JOHN KNOX: The First Blast of the Trumpet has sounded, my people; see that it not sound a second blast! I am John Knox, Minister of the Gospel at Edinburgh, and I come before you to speak of a cankerous sore that afflicts our nation, a Jezebel who transforms the seat of state into her own den of Seduction: I warn you of the Monstrous Regimen of Women! It bodes dire effects not only on the political integrity of the nation, but on the salvation of your souls as well. Does it not say in an Epistle of Saint Paul: But I suffer not a Woman to teach, nor to usurp Authority over the Man? I tell ye, that lass is nothing more than a double-speaking and treacherous minx, vixen of vile instincts. Although it is true she shines with the title and the blood of the Stuarts, she stinks heavily with the putrescence of the Papist House of Guise. Enfolded in this First Blast is the note of the Second: see to it that there not be a Third!

MONSIEUR DU CROC: Monsieur, that's disgusting: you've spit all over the Congregation. And you hardly do the Queen justice, from what I've seen. Her Majesty returned to Scotland a young lady eighteen years of age, faced with the daunting task of keeping your various factions of warlords from raiding and despoiling each other, WHILE on the other hand coping with that...husband of hers. She is holding wolves by the ears, and she is doing it well; her edicts are just, and although she may be destined to failure, it is all thanks to people such as yourself, Monsieur le Priest. In any case, I am the French Ambassador, Monsieur du Croc, and I am enchanted to make your acquaintance. I'm afraid I must be on my way now. Good day to you.

Darling DARNLEY

Truly, in the beginning I was charmed by him, by his foppish and elegant ways, by his ambition. He was young and I was young. We would ride together; I would dress up incognito as a boy to go out on hunts and adventures, grand old times that seemed to hold every promise of happiness.

But Darnley served an even greater purpose than that.

Through his lineage, my cousin held dual claim to the thrones of Scotland and England, as did I. Any child that we could produce, would have a claim stronger than any in the land, to rule this Island United. I needed to breed this successor to scheme us to peace; Darnley was my instrument to power beyond our lifespans.

But here was the problem with Darnley. He was a needy, greedy, drunken, and power hungry twerp, who very quickly turned to showing up at Counsel meetings (that he said he wanted to participate in!) drunk off his ass and making a spectacle, not only of himself but of me as well. Could not focus one instant on matters of state. And before the Lords!

Despite these humiliations, I made sure to produce that child. And what a wonder it was I came through to term, after all I'd been through. Pools of blood, this time not in murder, but in Creation of Life, for the dream of peace, in the midst of this striving. Like a great flower of crimson spread before me, veiling the cries of this new infant, a Son was born to us. I called him James of course, after my father.

It cam wi' a lass and it will gang wi' a lass.

In that moment I experienced one of the only victories in my life over Great Bess, Gloriana of England, in doing something she couldn't (or wouldn't) do.

Her throne would fall to my son, no matter my fate. In the meantime, I had to keep holding the wolves at bay.

ACT III: AN EXPLOSIVE SITUATION

I know very well that the question on everybody's lips is: did I murder, or have murdered, my second husband?

Well, hear me out.

It got worse than that, oh much worse. Especially after he contracted some venereal disease when out tavern-hopping and philandering. But he would still come to me, drunken and hardly able to speak, ask me why it couldn't be like in the good old days, when we shared a table and bed. He was a young man, couldn't he err one or two times, and still be on the path to doing better? and why oh why did I never let him spend time with the baby?

Yet he hungered for my power and was a danger to that child. He would snatch him up from his cradle, stumbling, and try to take him around for a stroll. Every day I feared some mishap, or contagion.

He daily made strife with the Lords I strove endlessly to bring into harmony.

This was more than a nuisance, this was a danger to the state. What is imputed to me as wickedness, could have been one of my greatest triumphs.

And in retribution for Rizzio...

So, to answer that question on everybody's lips: I am a Queen, and have ways of making my will known without expressly stating it. A conjuration of noble lords was formed against the excesses of my husband, headed by James Hepburn, Fourth Earl of Bothwell. They seemed to understand just what needed to be done.

And thus he was blown up, the first act of terrorism with explosives in Human History, and it wouldn't be the last. At Kirk o' Field, in an estate that used to be an old abbey where he was recuperating from his illness. I spent some time with him there, before I had to be off to the wedding party of one of my domestics that lasted until two in the morning. The Blast, detonated about midnight, didn't kill him: he was strangled by one of the conspirators.

Problem solved?

In Holy Matrimony: Third Time's the Charm?

It was after the first blast of the trumpet had been sounded by Ol' John Knox, and there would have been a second and third, if Great Bess hadn't put a stop to him. It was sweet to hear of her humbling him, banning his books and banishing him from her realm; whereas he had made me weep when I granted him audience. I tried to reason with that bigot, whereas he was only fire and brimstone. Therefore I wept. The satisfying fact is he could never be as good a writer as I am. And has absolutely no understanding of international politics.

What understanding of them did I display, everyone asks, being as my next move was to marry the man who had been formally accused of the assassination of my late husband? I had to know how that would look.

There were those who said I was on the way to having as many husbands as old Henry the Eighth had wives. Perhaps this is true, but it all served some purpose. Although I did use marriage for my own political ends, others also used me for their ends; it therefore would not be fair to call me a seductress. Especially given the following.

James Hepburn, Fourth Earl of Bothwell, abducted and ravished me at Dunbar castle, forcing me to sign a marriage agreement. Speaking of wolves by the ears and explosive situations! What I drew up, though, was enough to my own advantage (I am gifted at bureaucracy), that I told myself it partially erased the shame.

Not that I hadn't felt some draw to him, but he was beneath my rank, and not necessarily husband material. My right-hand warlord, how many rebellions he had put down for me! As a young man he had served my late mother with the utmost loyalty. He was a man who took care of my problems, and I knew his ferocity first-hand.

At this castle on the rocky coasts, I was captive in the upper rooms of his fortress.

He came to me, speaking in French as we usually did between us, with a petition he said was drawn-up by the Lords.

I read it, but refused to sign it; he bowed and left.

Some hours later, he returned to me with the petition and a quill, firmly stating there could be no refusal, given the knowledge we shared.

"Then, my Lord, I will sign, being as it is the will of the Counsel and the Counsel is the will of the people. We are indeed bound in many things. My only condition is that you leave me to draw up the marriage contract today, under terms befitting Myself your Anointed."

Bothwell weighed my words before responding.

"Very well, Your Majesty, that is not contrary to my wishes. On my side I also propose this," he put his gloved hand to his dagger, "that the marriage be consummated immediately upon the drawing-up and signing of the documents--which I leave entirely to your control. I cannot abide a change of heart from you during the delays. You have until ten o'clock this evening. Think of your child, your kingdom."

"Since my answer is decided for me, my answer is yes, O Vassal! Yet another Rough Wooing! You know how King Henry the Eighth, when I was still an infant, bristled that I was promised to the Dauphin Francois, I who was already promised to his son Edward? Do you remember the devastation of Scotland, all the bloodshed? Recall the Rough Wooing, during our wedding night, my dear! The documents will drawn-up by ten o'clock."

He was off without a word, only to return for our nuptials.

No use dwelling on them,

let's move on.

INTERMEZZO: The Casket Letters

Enter:

A NO-NAME SCHOLAR: These so-called Casket Letters that have so defamed Mary Queen of Scots, and the shoddy sonnets that accompany them, are manifest Forgeries. Firstly, since from the time of her girlhood, Mary had been trained to encode all sensitive documents in cipher. These compromising letters are written in plain French for all to see: highly suspicious. Secondly, the quality of the sonnets does not bespeak the training the Queen had in that poetic form, and display only amateur qualities. Thirdly: MARY BEATON. Who is Mary Beaton you ask? One of the Four Marys! she's been there since the beginning. Hiding in plain sight. Her handwriting looks quite like the Queen's. Compare:

Do you see where I'm going with this? Those forgeries were an inside job: Mary Beaton was threatened or coerced into betraying her mistress (likely by the Queen's Bastard Brother, the Earl of Murray) and cobbling these letters together, implying adultery and treason. But no one will believe me! It all happened in a Past Life.

ACT IV: AH, THE TANGLED WEBS WE WEAVE

You're starting to get the picture, no? about how they're going to spin all this, Dear Reader, you who have been with me all this way: I was an adulteress who murdered my second husband, in order to marry my third? the love of my life, my sin, my RAPIST?! Oh, the irony.

I have secret to tell you. I'm not only a Queen, but a Writer. Words have always been the exercise of Reign, my most intensive sector of training. My French prose is truly to die for.

Furthermore, I'm not only a Writer, but a Spy. I have practiced the fine art of espionage and negotiations between enemy factions since the time of my girlhood. I am proficient in ciphers, key to spy-craft.

One further confession, Dear Reader: I am not only a Spy but a Prisoner, kept in lavish house-arrest by my dear cousin, Great Bess of England. Yet I still practice the art of espionage.

What are these ciphers we speak of? It is a subject close to my heart, so heed well.

A cipher is a substitution system, letter for symbol, of the ABCs, and a symbol is given for commonly used words like "the" or "and." Ciphers are individualized to each purpose. Using them can add a level of security to any sensitive communications. I highly recommend writing in cipher.

HOW DID I GET HERE?

On horseback. Fled from Lochlaven castle and its surrounding lake, where I was held by my rebels. Bold and daring escape with the little Douglas, sixteen years old, who rescued me bravely. Hooves and hearts pounding, we galloped to safety. Time to regroup.

Next, I lost a battle I should have won, against my illegitimate half-brother the Earl of Murray; my forces outnumbered his, but I attempted to parley with him, and that was my undoing. I should have slaughtered him and his rebels. Sibling rivalries.

Now, I will assemble my loyal followers and flee to England: hope is never lost. My dearest cousin and sister, Great Elizabeth of England, will surely come to my aid; two sister Queens ruling on the same Island! She has sent me a ring, and a beautiful letter, promising redress: I know she will free me from this turmoil.

FINAL ACT: JUDGMENT

Nineteen Years Later.

Needlepoint. I told you it was important for us Ladies. Especially when you're bored. This is my Cousin Elizabeth Tudor, stitched in my hand:

See the bit of red hair on top? A.CATTE.

Thus, I am the mouse. See it there on the right?

At first, it did not seem like prison. Everything was by imperceptible degrees. I was moved from estate to estate, given the treatment of a Queen and all the respect due to a Queen. I lived daily in hope of meeting the Great Bess, and telling her my story in person.

This meeting would never occur.

I'm looking pretty good in that picture, in 1573, but you should see me now. I told you before how I enjoy the luxuries of the table. Being as it's one of the few things they don't deny me, I admit that I've let myself go a little. I have always insisted on having a skilled French chef on staff to prepare our meals, for myself and my domestics. I wouldn't say I've gotten too fat, just a little plumper than I would like to be. Old habits die hard.

Of course, they don't allow me exercise or outdoor leisure, always afraid I'll make one of my famous escapes. My limbs feel like they are beginning to atrophy, and a tingling sensation creeps along my extremities; therefore I use a cane to walk now. My hair, once fiery, has turned grey and falls out. I keep it shaved and wear a wig.

Writing becomes more and more of a struggle, but there is only a little way forward: have courage.

Dear Bess and I have long been exchanging letters, ever since I was a lass of eighteen. She would remonstrate with me, give me good advice. She can roar and caress in the same breath, and her letters have been some of the most beautiful and frightening literature I've ever read. Since I have been in her custody, though, a strange intimacy has entered our correspondence. I feel like I've known her all my life, though I've never met her.

At other times in the lonely dark of night I can scarce believe that she exists; it's like I'm crying out in the wilderness to an absent Being, sending letters to the void to remain unread. Life is strange.

Speaking of letters--

it is because of what I have written\

and what they say I've written/

that I will be

BEHEADED

tomorrow morning

at Eight O'clock

[sharp]//:

You should have known Writing was the crux, and who could spin what and how. My espionage continued under her watchful guard. Old habits die hard. Eventually her spymaster Walsingham and that dastardly Cecil caught me in their web of counter-espionage. I do not have the time to explain particulars, but suffice it to say:

The Pen is Mightier than the Sword/

But everybody's Pen against Mine gives me no chance

/For me\

And yet, I thought outside my lifetime:

My Pen preserves my Story.

Perhaps in a future lifetime, someone will find my letters gathering dust in unvisited archives, and reconstruct my tale:

Somewhat as I saw it.

9 O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING: FOTHERINGHAY

The stage is set for my execution. Knock at the door at eight o'clock sharp. I made them wait an hour: I'm ready when I'm ready. I spent half the night in prayer, and the other half in readying every nuance of my appearance.

The Pen scratches the final notes of the Tragic Crown,

Great Hall,

I mount the platform,

They have sent an Anglican preacher to tell me how wrong I am in matters of religion and he tries to woo the gathering toward my humiliation:

BUT HEAD HELD HIGH I TALK OVER HIM AND DROWN HIM OUT IN A DELUGE OF LATIN LITURGICAL LITANIES THROWING THE SAINTS AND THE ROCK OF PETER IN THEIR PURITAN FACES WHILE THAT ANGLICAN DRONES ON AND I BEAT MY BREAST BRANDISHING ALOFT MY GREAT JEWELED CRUCIFIX FLASHING IN THE TORCHLIGHT

My Ladies in Waiting remove my outer clothing to unveil\\:

the Red of the Martyr, Red of the Harlot.

Blindfolded, led to the block.

Head feels suspended over the abyss.

From coronation to execution, the pendulum has indeed swung. Just a moment longer, the final moment, the final strokes of the pen.

My final words I will speak now:

"In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum!"

[Into your hands, Lord, I entrust my spirit.]

As she has already said: "I barely felt my own beheading--it was merciful that way."

It took three strokes by a drunken Executioner with a dull axe, but the first blow entirely severed the joining of her spinal column and skull. The second blow cut away most of the rest of the neck, and the third "blow" was more a slicing back and forth to get through the rest of the cartilage.

When the Executioner raised her severed head to pronounce justice passed, her wig detached and the head fell to the blood-spattered floorboards, revealing her shaved head. It is said her lips continued to move for a full fifteen minutes. The rest, as they say, is History.

I know that Her Story is a melancholy way to while away an hour; but consider what it would have been to live it in its woeful detail: a lifetime from coronation to beheading. Still, Mary Stuart in my Past Life (gained through reading her and about her), went to her execution with head held high, unbroken by her series of traumas. So when nine o'clock in the morning rolls 'round next for me, I'll consider myself fortunate that it's only work I'm an hour late for. I'll hold my head high as well.