"Should I? Your sister wed the bedfellow of the English Queen?" – Mary to the Earl of Moray (The 2013 film, Mary Queen of Scots)

In the early days of 1564, Mary had laughed in disbelief, when the ambassador expressed her English cousin's absurd suggestion that Mary should marry her own alleged lover, Lord Robert Dudley. The poor ambassador however made it clear to Mary the offer had not been a joke. Her cheeks had coloured with indignation. Mary countered with the question of why Queen Elizabeth did not marry the man herself. The ambassador had no such answer to give.

It had to be a very poor jest for it was an insult.

She marry Elizabeth's lover? Mary did not find it laughable that Elizabeth would dare suggest such a lowly suitor to Mary, an anointed queen with unquestionable legitimacy. She had been the wife of the Dauphin of France and was for a short time, the Queen Consort of France. Perhaps even worse, it was believed this upstart courtier had a hand in his late wife's death to free himself to marry Elizabeth. Not to mention the father and grandfather of this man had been disgraced and executed for treason.

Why would Mary Stuart, a young and desirable queen wish to marry such a man?

A polite refusal had been on her lips, when the ambassador said the marriage to this Lord Robert Dudley would bring her recognized rights to the Elizabeth's throne.

A bluff, a few warned to deaf ears. Moray and Maitland were suddenly eager for the match. Mary entertained this insulting offer with as much grace as she could muster. She did not wish to refuse this unsavoury Robert Dudley's suit in haste without trying to extract a clause of Mary being named Elizabeth's official heir to the English Throne.

In hindsight, she should have known to not trust Elizabeth's word, which revealed to be as inconstant as the wind. Mary's natural instinct was to balk and stubbornly refuse to listen to anyone who dared to try to tell her who to marry. She had ignored her Uncle Claude's meddling and had rejected Catherine de Medici's consolation offer in her thirteen year old son Henri, Duke de Anjou's suit.

What chance was young Henri going to be King of France?

If only Mary could see the future like the strange Nostradamus who predicted Henri II's death at just forty years young. She might have seriously considered her younger former brother in law.

The temptation of being named Elizabeth's heir and of possibly meeting Elizabeth herself in exchange for this Lord Robert proved to give Mary enough pause.

By spring, the Dudley marriage negotiations proceeded far enough that portraits of queen and suitor were formally exchanged. Still Spain had no response on a marriage between Mary and the heir, Don Carlos. Mary was tearfully annoyed when Maitland returned to Scotland from the continent without the quick results she impatiently wanted.

It was then it was learned from secondhand reports that Dudley was as equally disinterested as she of his Queen's offer of his hand. It was whispered, Robert had feigned an illness to delay coming to Scotland to meet Mary in person.

It gave Mary more reason to find another suitor elsewhere. Mary pressed Elizabeth's ambassador for any other English candidates Elizabeth would consider. She was hoping a cousin of hers-and Elizabeth's would be mentioned.

Unfortunately, for him and Elizabeth, the young Henry Stuart, the eldest son of the Lennoxes, had fallen gravely ill, said to be from his youthful sexual transgressions in France and his heavy drinking, and would not fully recover until near the new year. Mary, not knowing, how handsome the youth was in person imagined another sickly young husband. She loved Francis yes, but at twenty-one years, she knew she wanted something different when she would remarry.

Mary had watched her Maries flirt with the men at court with a prudish innocence. She noticed the shared looks between Mary Fleming and her Secretary of State, William Maitland. Giggled as Fleming spoke of her attraction to the older statesman with flushed cheeks and how she felt when her William kissed her. Livingston was all ready to wedded to Lord Sempill's son John.

Unfortunately not all of her Maries were lucky in love. Poor Beaton had wept when she ended her flirtation with the English ambassador out of loyalty to Mary. Poor Seton had developed an attraction to a man who was already married though she would not say whom.

An advantageous marriage with an man who had health and could inspire a different sort feeling in her.

Thus, the young long legged lad never got to meet again the widowed Mary, queen of Scots until she was already bound to the Earl of Leicester.

How would have history turned out if young Lord Darnley had gone to Scotland with his father?

Mary stared at Lord Robert Dudley's portrait presented to her by the English ambassador, Randolph. The Italian painter had depicted her English suitor as a handsome figure with dark brown hair and light blue eyes. She admitted to herself that Dudley had the look of a king or prince and appeared to be well made.

She turned to Sir Thomas Randolph and asked him, if the painting were a true likeness of the man. Randolph promptly replied that it was, with one caveat, Lord Robert was darker in complexion than what the portrait depicted.

"That explains the uncomplimentary comparison to a Gypsy."

The English ambassador nodded and went on to neutrally describe Dudley. Dudley was a man tall in stature, athletic, and well educated.

"Is he taller than I?" Mary asked curiously for there were few men who were taller than she.

"My lord Dudley is of the same height as Your Grace," answered Randolph.

"Our cousin Henry Stuart is said to be taller than I."

"Aye," admitted Randolph slowly and quickly steered the conversation back to Dudley. Mary politely smiled at the ambassador's unveiled relief as she complimented her unequal suitor's portrait. She felt too tired to make a witty jab at her intended's expense. One of her lords said oft repeated lines, why didn't this queen not take this man for her own?

Yes, why do you not marry him yourself, Elizabeth?

Later in private, Mary peered at the portrait with appraising eyes.

"What do you all think of my lord Dudley?" she asked her longtime female companions. "Do you think he has the bearing of a Prince?" The four Marys stepped forward to get a better look at the portrait.

"I wonder, does the size of his codpiece truthfully reflect his lord's-?" giggled Lady Mary Livingston in a loud whisper. Mary's eyes widened wondering if Lusty had caught her staring in that area for longer than was appropriate. Fleming clapped her mouth as she burst into laughter.

"Lusty!" howled Lady Mary Beaton.

"How obscene," breathed Mary Seton trying not to smile.

"Well our queen should ask the Queen Elizabeth of her personal assessment on this detail of our Lord Dudley," suggested Lady Mary Fleming still laughing as she poured two glasses of wine. She served Mary first before taking a sip of her wine cup. Mary frowned prudishly at the thought of marrying her cousin's great lover.

"Should I ask for my sister-cousin for her secondhand gowns as well?" snorted Mary with a half-smile as she leaned back in her chair, the wine untouched. The proud Lady Mary Seton glared the portrait with disapproval at the thought of her queen and friend marrying a nobleman so beneath her. Lady Mary Beaton gave her a hug and shrugged,

"Perhaps, this Lord Dudley is not the worst Englishman you could marry. Our lords seem keen on the match so long as your hereditary rights are recognized in the succession of England."

Mary nodded, "My authority will no longer be undermined by my subjects turning to England if I named heir."

Little did Mary know, that Moray and Maitland were tensely pacing around their studies because their letters had been replied with a serpentine letter by William Cecil with no binding pledge from Queen Elizabeth to name Mary her heir.

He certainly cannot be the best either.

Is he worth the price to my dignity?

Seton remarked suddenly, "I found out from my brother that Dudley's father led the vanguard of the English army at Pinkie."

Flickers of memories of the night Mary was brought to safety of the Inchamahome Priory flooded back. The fog and darkness of night, the horses, the sense of urgency and tension in the adults, and the smell of the water as they crossed to the island.

Flamina frowned, remembering the almost faded memory of learning of her father Malcolm's death on that Black Saturday. Mary clasped her hand over Flamina's and looked at her tenderly. The five young women did not remember that many years ago in the very same room here at Stirling Castle, they had all wept at the news of Fleming's father, Macolm Fleming amongst the ten thousands Scots slain at the lost Battle of Pinkie Clough to the English.

"I don't think I remember what Father's voice sounded like when he was happy or even crossed," Flamina whispered honestly. She blinked and smiled at her queen,

"Well, perhaps, King Philip will change his mind and propose you marry his heir, Don Carlos."

God willing.

"I wrote to Elisabeth, my dearest sister, his wife," Mary mentioned flatly, the last tendril of hope on a marriage with the Spanish heir.

Mary did not wish to think of Catherine de Medici and her daughter Elisabeth having something to do with the failed marriage match with the infirm Spanish heir. Catherine had never loved her as much as King Henri and their children had loved Mary. But Elisabeth, her dearest friend, whom Mary loved so much, had to have no knowledge or part in Philip's refusal. After all, they had wept and embraced, when Elisabeth had left France to marry King Philip.

Elisabeth would not betray me so.

"Have Your Grace received a letter from your uncles or your grand-mère?" asked Seton quietly.

She loved them with all her heart, but her Guise family back in France still sought to use her for their own ambitions. Uncle Claude had negotiated a match with the Archduke Charles behind her back. Mary had refused angrily that her uncle had done such a thing without her consent as if she were still the same child-queen who signed blank documents at his behest. Perhaps, she still was resentful towards her uncles as it was on their advice (and King Henri's insistence) to proclaim herself, the Queen of England and quarter her arms with that of England's, which caused bad relations with the English. Underneath her pride, a tiny part of her wondered if she perhaps should allow Uncle Claude to guide her in this matter.

The Archduke is not very wealthy but he is a least a Hapsburg. Not a traitor's son who owed everything he had to Elizabeth.

Caught in a vise because Philip of Spain still supported Elizabeth and Catherine de Medici had no use for Mary. The 'rough wooing' by Henry VIII and his son Edward had been continued in a different fashion by Elizabeth ruthlessly insisting that she had the right to approve of who Mary Stuart wedded.

Stubborn pride prevented Mary from writing to her Uncle Claude or even her grandmother Antoinette, asking them to reopen the negotiations with the Hapsburg archduke.

Mary lied with a cheerful smile, "No, my Seton, I have not."

"Come now, let's send for Davie Riccio and have some music as we play cards," Mary ordered, rising to her feet and leading her ladies out of her presence chamber to the small private supper room. Mary glanced back with a frown and resentful eyes at the portrait before the door was closed.

Please, God, send me a husband that is not Elizabeth's lover!

Blair Castle, Blair Atholl - Summer Progress of 1564

Even months later after the court's progress to the north in July, everyone was still unsure if these marriage negotiations were at all serious on Elizabeth's part. The Scottish were hopeful and serious on their part, despite not wholly believing that Elizabeth was truly serious in giving up her beloved favourite. Mary held out hoping another more suitable foreign or English offer would come her way and she could break it off. Upon her own ambassador's return from England, there was disappointingly had no word to the otherwise and an only vague pledge of her status as heir.

Sir Melville seemed uncomfortable as he described to Mary, the investiture of Robert as the Earl of Leicester and Elizabeth's interrogation of which queen was the more beautiful. He kept Mary unaware that Elizabeth had tickled and touched the neck of Leicester familiarly during the ceremony.

Regardless, Mary herself did not wish to marry this man without the certainty of her being recognized as the heiress of the English throne. She received only assurances that Elizabeth preferred Mary's claim over the Grey sisters, but still the endorsement of Mary's place as Elizabeth's successor withheld.

Still the marriage negotiations did not fall through as everyone expected. Elizabeth had been waiting for Mary to outright reject the marriage, but Mary had not done so. Impatiently Mary felt she could not wait any longer and having been blocked from her preferred powerful, Catholic suitors. Catherine de Medici had cooled from her offer to her third son. Philip of Spain now was in favour of a match with the Archduke Charles, but the Archduke and his father Ferdinand preferred a marriage with Elizabeth over her.

Mary could not believe she had agreed to the degrading match. Robert was stunned and heartbroken that he would not be at the side of his beloved Elizabeth for the rest of his life.

It was the end of September and the marriage was sealed by proxy. Her half-brother James had stood at her side in the Earl of Leicester's place for the wedding. James assured her that the marriage would be prove to be advantageous.

She could not help but to wonder aloud,

"For who though?"

It was too late for Mary to change her mind and decline the match. Far too late for Robert to make any last minute fight against the marriage. It was said later that Sir William Cecil, Thomas Randolph, William Maitland, and James Stewart, the Earl of Moray were the champions of this match. On the former's part, Cecil had no inclination for a settlement with the Scottish Queen and had not pushed Elizabeth into honouring her commitment. Cecil also wished to be rid of Robert's influence on the Queen and held the hopes with Dudley married off that Queen Elizabeth would finally marry a royal, unproblematic suitor. It was said that Cecil could stomach a Dudley king of the lesser country of Scots. All the Pro-Anglo, Protestant lords of Mary's parliament supported the match because Dudley was no Catholic prince or French.

A date was set and preparations were underway for the actual wedding in October at the hall of Holyrood Palace. Her summer progress had distracted her from dwelling on her upcoming marriage. It was not until the Earl of Leicester and his retinue had arrived at Holyrood Palace, that she fully realized her widowed state would come to an end. She would have to put her white lace mourning veils and her black, grey, dark violet mourning gowns away.

I shall be La Reine Blanche no more.

Lying in the grass with one of her hounds, Mary recalled her sumptuous, glittering first wedding to her sweet, but sickly Francis and later their coronation. The pure white of the fluffy clouds reminded her wedding gown.

It was the happiest day of my life. She had said so to Catherine de Medici. Sounds of children's laughter broke her reverie of the wedding dancing. Mary lifted her head and saw some children at a distance. There was a young fair haired girl of six who stood tallest amongst the rest. Mary smiled nostalgically, how she missed her childhood with the Valois princes and princesses. France had been a land of eternal summer.

The smile faded and she lay her head back on the ground.

The Earl of Leicester was not a dear friend of hers like her dear Francis had been. Her new husband by proxy was nothing but a stranger likely sent by his Queen to spy on her, and to control her. If the rumours about his late wife were true, perhaps he would seek to be rid of Mary too. Those were the thoughts Mary mused upon until her French guards came and found her.

"Monsieurs, you look upon the wyfe of the grate English horse-keeper!"

Holyrood Palace- mid September 1564

The Earl of Leicester strode and before her he bowed lowly.

Mary grudgingly had to admit God had made Leicester handsome of strong build and good looks. He was more handsome in person than the portrait had depicted. Mary was struck by his height. He was not much taller than her statuesque 5'11 but he also was not shorter than her as so many men were. His swarthy skin was pale, she supposed it was because he was cold, dressed in thick dark velvet and wool and likely very tired from the journey. It did not cross her mind that his whole world had been turned by its head.

"My lord Leicester, welcome to Scotland," she greeted with charming smile with a hand held out to this handsome stranger who still bowed deeply before her, but underneath her smile she felt a sense of foreboding and irony?

How had it gone from Mary five years ago, joking about the scandal surrounding Elizabeth and her 'horse keeper' to Mary wedding the very same man. Mary did not know that the man who now held her hand, had then quizzed Nicholas Throckmorton's secretary Robert Jones, about Mary's jokes about Robert killing his wife Amy to make way for Elizabeth.

"Your Grace, thank you," he returned with a kissed on her hand. Leicester's eyes were brighter and intense in person, something the artist did not or could not convey in his medium.

She brushed her thoughts off as silly. Her cousin would not send a murderer for a husband. Mary tried not to dwell on Leicester's family history, which she heard from gossip.

[Back in France, Mary had been scandalized to hear of Dudley's father had been executed for his failed plots (ironically supported by the French) against her other English cousin, the late Catholic Queen Mary Tudor, for placing his son and his daughter in law (another English cousin of hers, Lady Jane Grey) on the throne. Robert, along with his brothers had been imprisoned too, but Mary would not learn that until tongues wagged at Elizabeth's open favour for Robert. As well, long ago, Dudley's grandfather had been executed by Elizabeth's father, King Henry VIII for reasons Mary had not bothered to learn of.]

"Did my lord have an uneventful journey?" Mary questioned.

During their first meeting, the Earl of Leicester was polite and courteous to Mary. Though to all onlookers, it was very apparent that he would rather be anywhere else than the Scottish court. Other than a couple of curious stares, Mary could tell he was resigned and deeply morose. He reminded her of an abandoned dog longing for its original master. Dudley did not bother to make even a half hearted attempt to appear to make the best of their arranged marriage. Thomas Randolph again reddened with embarrassment and made excuses to Scottish lords. Randolph wrote another letter of complaint to Robert's elder sister Mary's husband, Henry Sidney.

In honour of Robert and the English guests, Mary held several days of feasting and festivities. By the last night before the wedding took place, Mary had charmed her English guests except for her future husband. Mary had overheard one noble remark in English to Lord Robert of his fortune to wed a queen of such beauty and grace. Mary felt Robert's gaze and looked over at him with a dazzlingly smile to which he slowly smiled in return with a deferential dip of his head. She couldn't overhear his quiet reply to the noble. Moments later, Dudley surprised her by coming forward with a bow to request a dance with her. His smile faded, when the dance happened to be the popular yet scandalous Italian Volta. The pair executed the dance steps perfectly, lacking only in the passion.

"My lord, I am not your choice of a queen to take as wife, am I?" Mary asked in French after they had finished their dance. Robert's mind had appeared to be elsewhere throughout the volta. Mary clapped as the next dance commenced, but she caught Robert stiffened at her bluntness.

He suddenly grew interested in the cup of wine in his hand instead of making a great show of courtly words that she expected in a seasoned courtier.

"I made no illusions that I was a worthy contender for Your Grace's hand." Somehow that did not mollify her pride. His utter unfeigned disinterest in her provoked her. Her vanity was stung as she could not comprehend how she could be not desired as a wife.

"My lord was not my first choice for a husband either," she snapped with her own bitterness. Her raised voice was loud enough to be overheard by Maitland and Moray. Moray downed his cup of wine and walked away to find the English ambassador or his wife, Agnes.

Elizabeth had yet again evaded naming Mary her heir and has now indirectly denied Mary, the freedom to marry for love.

It rested on her council headed by Moray and Maitland to extract from the dithering English Queen, the sole clause Mary wanted from this marriage.

Mary had no particular man in mind, but the idea of romantic love. Mary's young heart wished for love, to love and to be loved. She was a queen, yes, but was a woman, a human who desired nothing more than to enjoy the pleasure of love. Her arranged marriage to Francis had been a love match. Robert Dudley, despite being ten years her elder, was handsome and witty enough to make Mary fall for him if she could reconcile with his lack of royal blood. If Mary could ever accept the fact he had been Elizabeth's lover.

Regardless, Dudley did not look like he would ever be in the mood to try to love or like Mary. Mary also knew his heart and loyalty was far away in England and had the correct inkling that it would never change allegiance. Robert finally looked at her and at her hand on his arm. He opened his mouth to say something, but clever Maitland had approached her. Mary was glad for the interruption for she did not want to hear his insincere words. The sham of a marriage, the unequal match of a Scottish Queen and an English Master of the Horse was too much to swallow. Mary was very sensitive about her unblemished reputation and her royalty. What was the entirety of Europe thinking of this marriage?

The Queen of Scots has been played for a fool by the bastard English Queen.

She glanced over her shoulder at her new husband's sullen face. It was a slight comfort to see how Robert was as miserable as she was.