Mary, Queen of Scots

I was born at Linlithgow in 1542 and made queen before I could focus my eyes—six days old, a crown the weight of a life. For safety and shaping I was sent to France. Among the Valois I learned to govern in council and to pray as a Catholic; I learned the uses of ink and cipher as surely as courtly grace. In 1558 I wed Francis; for a brief year I was Queen of France, and then a widow.

I returned in 1561 to a country remade by the Reformation. I kept my Mass; I confirmed Protestant officers and ministers, seeking quiet order instead of a war of altars. I would not ratify the Treaty of Edinburgh, which stripped from me the style and arms of England, I being Margaret Tudor’s granddaughter. I wrote to Elizabeth as cousin and queen—courtesy steady in my hand, claim steady in my mind.

Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley, promised strength and brought disorder. In March 1566 armed men burst into my supper chamber, dragged David Rizzio from my side, and stabbed him while I carried my child. James was born that June. Darnley died at Kirk o’ Field, the house blown apart, his body found outside. I married the Earl of Bothwell soon after; Scotland would not forgive it.

Taken and held at Loch Leven, I signed away my crown for my infant son and escaped the island by boat. Beaten at Langside, I sought Elizabeth’s protection and found nineteen guarded years. At Chartley my letters in cipher passed through beer barrels; at Fotheringhay I met my judges, then the block—black gown over a red petticoat, and the device by which I lived: En ma fin est mon commencement.