Blood Truths

"Yet here's a spot."

To this day, years on, her words still ring fresh in my ears.

"Out, damned spot!"

It is not the things one knows, however bad, that can prepare for the horror which cast itself before me.

"Out, damned spot! Out, I say!"

Murder was not uncommon in those days. Even now, in the lower realms of Scotland, it is hardly odd to hear of a family left fatherless. But a murder on my Lady's hands, she whom I served and adored, was not something I ever conceived as possible. So imagine the shock, the absolute horror, that confronted me when I was exposed to truths I never even dreamed of

The doctor came that night. Though he had been watching her, by my side, for two nights straight, he had not heard her speak, nor witnessed her walking in her sleep. I had. Not on those night in which he accompanied me, but many times before. Alas, I had heard her speak things not even the devil himself would dare to whisper. These whisperings, however, I refused to repeat, when asked to do so. I like to think my reasons for hiding what I had heard were amiable; I had no witness to confirm my hearings and as such, could not prove what I had heard. Now, however, I must admit my reasons to be far more selfish; I was terrified. I was afraid to have my hearings confirmed. For as long as I was the only soul to hear such torturous words, I could pretend they did not exist. I could not bring my heart to believe what my mind already knew; my Lady was a murderer.

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, (I doubt I will ever know which), these tortuous truths were soon made plain for the doctor, as well as I, to see.

We watched her, as silent as the grave, as she rubbed her hands repeatedly, trying desperately to clear them of phantom blood. It was then, in her slumbering speech, that the truth was laid bare.

"..who would have thought the old man to have so much blood in him?"

My beating heart, without a doubt, was shocked to a temporary standstill at her words. I can hardly recall my thoughts at the time, I was trembling with the pure shock of it; my Lady was proved to be a murderer.

As I watched her, I was torn between hatred and compassion- neither of which seemed a logical response. I was not one, in the eyes of the Lord, to be driven to hatred. As a Christian woman, (and I remain so to this day), I believe the Lord's words, "love the sinner; hate the sin" , to be those of ultimate wisdom. This wisdom, when faced with such horrors, abandoned me. The other weighty emotion left me dumbstruck. How I could possibly feel compassion for a murderer was beyond me. To this day, I do not understand it. But despite my conflicting views on feeling both, I was filled top to toe with the most futile mix of overwhelming compassion and burning hatred.

I was shaken, and though I fought to appear calm, I suspect my soul was at war; not unlike my Lady s own. The doctors presence was of no comfort; there was no medicine nor secret spices to cure my leaping heart. She whom I loved as dearly as a sister, she whom I had adored and cared for for many years, was not to me who I had always known her as. She was a murderer. Murderer. Even to this day, the thought still brings on chills. It was inconceivable, and yet, it was so. As I bid the doctor goodnight, after watching my Lady back to her chambers, I was struck by the full impact of what I had now confirmed; my Lady had murdered the King. I was appalled, disgusted, dismayed and outraged. In that single moment, every ounce of compassion was forced from my body. I refused to, I could not, love a murderer. It was then hatred which ran thick through my veins.

As a servant to the household, it was not right of me to take the liberty of leaving my Lady s service, and undoubtedly, I should have stayed, as my services were evidently much needed. I did leave, however, and managed to rid myself of the unsettling anger which accompanied me wherever I travelled, by means of a little drink. For this very reason, I believe much may have passed me by unnoticed; my memories of this short time are vague, if not erased, (perhaps thankfully), by the aid of the liquid.

It was not long after I took leave of her, that I heard of my Lady s decease, Seyton s words were through all of Scotland as fast as the plague.

I heard the news almost instantly, for, I confess, I was abiding very near to the household, in order to keep an ear open for information. The information I received however, was surprisingly painful.

"The Queen, my lord, is dead."

I admit, I shed a tear. My Lady, my closest friend, would breathe no more. In a moment, all trace of hatred was miraculously flushed from my body, leaving me empty with nothing but grief, despair and sorrow to fill the void.

As I can still, i heard her anguished cries.

"Oh, oh, oh!"

It was, and remains, heartbreaking.

I do not doubt that her death sprung from her own hands, for she had seen her darkest hours. Although I did never wish her dead, I was, and still am, grateful for her decease. A soul as tormented as her own might take great relief in death, and I pray for hope that it has.

Of course, I do not believe her suffering to outweigh her actions, and I presume that if she was still walking among us, I would loathe her very existence. But she is, and has been for many years, beyond my judgment. I do not forgive her actions, but I no longer hold the loathing I once did. For, as my Lady spoke on that fateful night, "what's done cannot be undone."

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