Couvent de Saint Pierre les Dames, Rheims, France. 

January 1615. 

I know my end is near. I feel the cold more deeply in my bones now, more so than only a few months ago and soon I will leave this transitory life, and move on to a better place. Each day, I feel a little closer to the world I cannot see and when my time comes, going to the life beyond this one will be just like walking through a door. I have no fear of death now; its sting does not frighten me. I have seen enough of life and do not think it can offer me any more than I have already experienced. 

When I entered the convent almost thirty years ago, I took vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. I did not mind making these promises. I had no desire for wealth; the Queen had left me a little money after she died, but it went into the convent's coffers. Vowing to be chaste was not difficult; I had never known the love of a man, nor wanted to. The final vow I made has not been a burden to me either, for being in the service of the Queen of Scots my whole life meant that I was accustomed to being obedient. I have not regretted any of these promises, until now. The Benedictines teach that silence is a virtue and speech should only be used when necessary, so I have never told anyone of my past. It is a small matter, but one that troubles me from time to time. I hope that telling you my story will satisfy the longing within me, and bring me peace. 

I was in the Queen's service for almost all my life, but left only a few years before her death. I think my mistress knew she would never leave her prison, and did not want me to stay with her in captivity. She had always said that one day I should leave her service, and marry. By the time I left her, I was past the age of childbearing but the Queen had hopes that I would marry a widower and become a mother to his children, as her jailer's wife Bess had done. However, the man who had asked for my hand many times had waited so long that he had given up on the idea of having a wife and so I returned to France. I came here, to where the Queen's mother is buried. I feel this is a fitting place for me to live out the rest of my days here on earth. 

It is almost thirty years since I last saw the Queen, but sometimes it feels as if it were yesterday. She is long dead, executed only a few years after I left her service. She now lies in Westminster Abbey, reinterred by the son who did so little for her while she was still alive. He is now the crowned king of both Scotland and England, and he must think that having a mother who was an executed traitor taints him somehow. To remedy this and ease his conscience, he has tried to make her memory more honourable by reburying her in a beautiful marble tomb, close to the cousin who signed her death warrant. 

I will soon be joining her in the world to come. I am old now, and feeling frail, and I do not have the same enjoyment in life that I once had. When I first came to the convent all those years ago, I soon became familiar with the offices of the day and the prayers soothed me, and made me feel closer to God. Now I am weary of them. I believe I have no need of any more prayers. When I die, there will be masses said for the repose of my soul but for now, I think I have prayed enough. 

As I sit peacefully in the chair in my cell, worn prayer book in hand, I look through the pages and reflect on the times when the Queen and I would have read our prayers from an ornate Book of Hours, in her little oratory at Holyrood. I gaze around at the bare walls of my cell, and think about the wonderful tapestries which hung on the walls of the Queen's palace in Edinburgh. All of a sudden, I feel very tired and almost light-headed. I think this may be the end, but the feeling passes after a few moments. I have some time left, but it will not be long. I feel a sudden urge to remember, to reclaim the past that I have lost. I must tell you my story. I close my eyes and let my mind wander, back to the beginning.