everything must always be perfect for me. And just as in France, I am admired and petted. Shrewsbury’s servants cannot do enough for me. No luxury is too extravagant for me.
And every day, when he comes to ride with me, he brings me a little token: the little cup of mud of a swallow’s nest, with two big pearls inside instead of eggs, a posy of roses with a gold chain twisted around the stems, a set of silver ribbons, a book of poems in French, scented leather gloves, a diamond brooch.
The terms of my return to Scotland are finally and fully agreed. William Cecil, once my sworn enemy, has changed his mind—who knows why?—and taken my side. He has negotiated for me with my half brother, Lord Moray, and with Lord Maitland, and he has forged a good agreement that he is confident will hold. I am to return to Scotland as her true and recognized queen. I am to be free to practice my faith. The country will be Protestant, as they say they prefer, but there will be no persecution of either Papists or Puritans. My son will be raised as a Protestant.
Some of this I will change when I am back on the throne. I have no intention of raising a heretic child destined for nowhere but hell. The lords who sign for my restoration now were my enemies only last year and I will have revenge. I have a list of the men who swore together to murder my husband and I will bring them to justice; they need not think that they will escape. Bothwell will be at my side and he will have his own scores to settle. But I can sign this agreement for now, with a clear conscience, since it restores me to the throne. The Holy Father will forgive me any agreement I make, as long as it serves the greater good of getting me back on my throne. Actually I would sign an agreement with the devil himself if it would get me back to the throne. Nothing is more important to me, to the Holy Church, and to the future of Scotland than I am returned.
Once restored to my throne, I can punish my enemies and educate my people against heresy. Once there I can build my power with my friends and allies in England so that the moment Elizabeth dies, or when she faces invasion—and both are inevitable—then I am ready to move to take my second throne.
Cecil writes nothing about my betrothal with Howard, but he cannot be ignorant of it. I know that the Scots lords would never have agreed to have me back without a man at my side: they will have made my marriage a precondition of my return. They are so fearful of women in general and of me in particular that they would never rest until they had me wedded and bedded and sworn to wifely obedience. They would be in a terror that I would bring Bothwell down on them as king consort. They trust Thomas Howard in a way that they will never trust me, because he is a Protestant, because he is a man.
They will see. They will see their mistake. I will marry him and make him king consort, and they will still see that I shall have my own way, and I will still bring Bothwell down on them for my revenge.
I write faithfully to Thomas Howard, and my letters are as inviting and alluring as I can make them. Thank God, I know one thing: how to entice a man. I was not a French princess for nothing; I do know how to make a man fall in love, even at hundreds of miles’ distance. I know how to lead him on and draw back, come forward, make promises, renege, enchant, puzzle, confuse, seduce. I am irresistible in person, and I can be enchanting on paper. I write to him daily and I bring him onward and onward to ensure that he is mine.
As part of this campaign of seduction and compromise, I have embroidered for him a special cushion, which I think will amuse him. It shows a barren vine being pruned with a billhook and he will know that I mean that the barren line of the Tudors can be cut down to let the new growth of our children take the throne. No one can blame me for the design—though it is