Mary Stuart was at peace with her coming execution. She had grown weary of her life long before, all hopes of ever reclaiming her throne dashed. When she was finally informed it was to happen the following morning, the only feeling she could summon was relief.
Relief, and a pressing need to settle her affairs.
Mary's ladies, however, were beginning to crumble. They were to finally see their beloved mistress beheaded, and tears abounded. Mary had grown quite fond of her ladies, who had been in her service for years, and were more like companions in her captivity. She wanted to maintain that companionship until the gently quieted them, reassuring them that everything would finally be alright, telling them that they must show the same fortitude as she. Only the absolute strength and certainty in her eyes was enough to convince them.
Over the next hours Fotheringhay became a flurry of activity. Mary had little time to make herself ready, and hastily wrote out her will and final letters while her household prepared her other affairs for the next day.
It was two in the morning before the preparations wound to a close. The reality of the events to come were beginning to take a toll on everyone. But not Mary. She signed her final letter, the most dear to her heart, as her ladies came to join her.
Claire, one of Mary's ladies, asked, "Your Grace, is there anything else you would like to do before we ready you for bed?"
"Yes. There is," she replied, carefully folding the letter, pressing her ring into the hot wax seal. Handing her final letter to her page, she turned to her ladies. "Have I ever told you about him?"
The ladies shared confused looks. "Who, Your Grace?"
A small smile graced the Queen's lips, the kind only the sweetest memory can bring. It softened her features, making her look instantly younger. "My Francis."
An anxious stir rippled through the small group. Mary had so rarely mentioned anything of her time in France. They all knew that there were still times when she wept for her first husband, clinging to whatever it was she kept hidden in a trunk, something she never let anyone else see. Finally, Claire spoke again. "No, Your Grace. Would you like to talk about him?"
"Yes, I would. Very much." The ladies waited patiently while Mary seemed to be lost in her own memories, the wistful smile remaining. "Would you please fetch me my trunk? There is something I want to show you."
One of her ladies retrieved the well-worn wooden chest from Mary's bedside, laying it beside her feet. They watched with rapt attention as she opened the trunk, exposing a plush velvet lining, and pulled out one of the most exquisite garments they had ever seen. They were awed by the black coat, richly decorated with intwining gold designs. Mary was quiet as she set it carefully on her lap, running her hands over it reverently, looking at the coat as if she wanted to memorize every detail, every stitch.
"He wore this at our wedding. We were both so young then, so young and in love, thinking we could do anything together." Mary was quiet again for several moments. "Francis was… Francis was the love of my life. We played together as children, you know, before we even understood what our engagement meant.
"When I lost him I did not know who I was. We both strayed in our marriage; I had a fleeting affair and he had a son with one of my ladies. There were times we both struggled to reconcile our duties as rulers with our hearts, but we always found each other. He always came back to me, and he was always at my side when I needed him. He believed in me," Mary said, her voice finally breaking, "even when I did not believe in myself."
Only then did she lose her composure, clutching Francis's coat to her chest like she was losing him all over again. The Queen was fighting back tears when she next spoke. "I held him in my arms as he died. Twice. Twice I felt what it was like to lose my other half. He died trying to save me, just as he always said he would."
Mary wiped the tears that had fallen, regaining herself. "The last months of his life..." she began, "we knew he was dying. He wanted to take pleasure in the small moments. And we tried. We tried so hard, and those are still some of my happiest memories.
She reached down to pull another item from the chest. More fabric, but nothing like the extravagance of the coat. Rather, it was a frayed scrap of plain white rough canvas, but Mary held it with the same care she bestowed upon Francis's wedding jacket. "He built me a boat. For weeks he was consumed by it; he just wanted to finish something, something permanent for me. He taught me how to sail it, and we went out nearly every day. I like to remember him sitting across from me under this sail. I can still picture the way the sun glinted off his golden curls, the way he looked at me like he never wanted to stop."
She carefully tucked the coat and the piece of canvas back inside the trunk, shutting it securely. "I miss him. I still miss him, just as I still feel his absence ripping a hole in my chest. Over the years there have still been times when I think of a fond memory, and I can almost believe that he is not gone, that he'll be home soon and I can tell him about my day."
Mary smiled a sad little smile. "Of course that's nonsense. But it doesn't matter now. I have already arranged for these to be returned to France, to our home. And Francis and I, we're going to be together again, and maybe we can finally have our dance under the stars."