6. There are many prisons depicted in The Captive Queen of Scots, both physical and metaphorical. Discuss.
7. “All her life she had recovered quickly from adversity because her optimism had been one of her strongest qualities and, she guessed, always would be,”. What do you think was behind Mary’s optimism at this point in the book? How did that optimism change the longer she was imprisoned?
8. Mary shows grave lapses of judgment throughout the book in terms of the people with whom she places her trust. What are some examples of this? Why does she put her faith into people who she senses might betray her?
9. “[Mary] was a woman who needed love,”. Is this an understatement? What do you think was the reason Mary craved affection?
10. What do you think of the jealousy that Elizabeth holds for Mary, and the antagonism she continually inflicts upon her? What do you think might have been behind it?
11. “He had often reminded her that he was her brother and that must mean the ties between them were strong,”. Did this passage, or another, foreshadow Mary’s bastard brother Jamie’s later betrayal of her? What did you think of Jamie, and the fate he met?
12. Jean Plaidy fills The Captive Queen of Scots with vivid descriptions and imagery—of the period’s dress, pageantry, customs, castles, even the countryside. Which images stood out for you? Based on Plaidy’s depiction of life in medieval Europe, do you think you could have lived in these times?
13. Mary’s execution is particularly violent. Do you think her persecution and eventual death would have been less brutal if she were a man?
14. Mary, Queen of Scots is one of medieval history’s most fascinating and enduring figures. In reading the story of her life in the first person, was Mary’s legend enhanced for you? Why or why not?
An Excerpt from The Queen’s Secret
Bermondsey Abbey
They have brought me to Bermondsey Abbey—a prisoner. They have discovered our secret. They have destroyed our happiness. It was what we always feared, but that does not make it any easier to bear.
They have taken Owen. I do not know what they have done to him. They have separated me from my little ones. Edmund, Jasper and Owen . . . my beautiful sons and sweet Jacina, my little daughter. Where are they and what are they thinking? They are too young to be taken from their mother.
What harm have they done?
I used to say to Owen: “When I was young, I did as they wished. I had always known that royal princesses must accept, with bland acquiescence, the fate chosen for them. This I did. I played my part in uniting my poor tortured country with England. I did all that. Now, why should I not choose my own way of life? Why? What harm am I doing?”
Owen used to soothe me, but he was at times a very worried man. How brave he was, how noble! His anxiety was all for me.
I remember so vividly those first moments of ecstasy when we knew we must be together and, constantly, we were afraid that we would be discovered, and that someone would betray us. Most of my household were my friends, but there could be spies among them. How could one be sure?
I used to try to reassure myself and Owen. “I am of no importance now,” I would say. “Nobody is interested in me. They have taken young Henry away from me. That is all they care about. I have lost him, Owen. I have lost my baby. Oh, I know he is the King of England . . . the boy King. It is the way with all royal children. They are always taken from the mothers who love them. But now I have a new life with you, and I will live it . . . I will.”
And so it was and the years passed. We were lulled into a certain blind security. We convinced ourselves that we were safe . . . most of the time.
Perhaps we were careless.
It is too late to think of that now. Here I am alone, a prisoner—though they pretend that is not so.
“Queen Katherine is resting at Bermondsey Abbey, as she is in poor health.” That is what they say.
And why is she in poor health? Because they have taken from her her husband . . . and he is my husband, for all they may say. They have already taken from her her firstborn, Henry, the King of England. They have taken all her beloved children. Poor health indeed! She would be in rude health if they would restore her to her family.
None would guess that I was under restraint. When I arrived, the bells of the Abbey rang a welcome. The Abbess was waiting to greet me. She gave me her blessing and sprinkled me with holy water. I was taken to the church and stood before the crucifix, and I prayed fervently that Owen might be free and my children restored to me.
Afterward the Abbess told me how honored she was to have the Queen of England in the Abbey, and the best accommodation that could be provided was found for me.
But I was a prisoner. She knew I had been parted from all those I loved. But pretense must be kept up. I, Queen of England, had come to honor the Abbey of Bermondsey with my presence.
There is not exactly a lack of comfort here, though it is simple, after the manner of abbeys. But I would have been happy to endure any physical discomfort if I could be with my family.
My longing for them increases every day.
I am not old. Some would say I am in the prime of life. Thirty-five might be called that. Yet I begin to feel that my life is over. There are times when I awake in the night and put out a hand to touch Owen. Then a terrible desolation sweeps over me. “Where are you, Owen?” I cry. “What will become of us all?”
The peace of the Abbey is all around me, but there is no peace for me. I am envious of those black-clad figures who go hither and thither, their lives governed by the bells. It is the bells which tell me what they will be doing at various times of the day. Sometimes I hear their chanting voices. I see them working in the gardens. I envy them.
I long for news. But there is none. And I feel shut away in my own despair.
How long the days seem! I start to think of my life and what has led me to this. And then, when I think of the old days, I find myself reliving them. The hours seem to slip by, and the bells tell me that another day is coming to its close.
I will go right back to the beginning. I will follow my life step by step. I will write it down, slowly savoring each scene. And I will ask myself how I came to end thus—a prisoner in Bermondsey Abbey.
The Hôtel de St.-Paul
My earliest recollections are of that drafty and comfortless mansion, the Hôtel de St.-Paul, in which, at that time, was incarcerated the man who was known throughout France as Charles the Mad.