The eighth day of Februari 1587. My Majesty, Cousin Elizabeth, They will say that my last letter is the one to Henri, my dearest brother-in-law, King of France. We are close, but not the way we were at times, Elizabeth. The letter to him will be about the final housekeeping for my staff, it will become my last political act, ultimately my testament to the future. The inner truth resides within me, my dear cousin. I know, how can I think of you as dear after your cruelty these past decades? Years that are inherently bent and twisted, distorted beyond any recognition. Every year became a lifetime yet fleeting and gruelling. I wake on the four-poster bed, the heavy drapes a cocoon from my life, my fate, my death. The majestic red material in tired folds, the red blood of martyrs. Do you want to make one of me, cousin? Cousin, what a sweet word of family. The familiar, a close relation and we know each other well. Don’t we? As I open my eyes in the morning, the dreams of our childish giggles echo into the bedchamber. Do you recall the games of tag, darting between the roses in the gardens, around the lakes? Of course, being older, I often let you win. Maybe I should have overruled you already then? My kindness has perhaps become my downfall. Those were the times of joy, before the tragedies in our lives, when our chortles bubbled up to life-affirming laughter. ‘Most unladylike,’ our guardians reprimanded us, as once again we ran away to play on the manicured lawns. The day you sequestered me in castle after castle, year after year, you banished the laughter out of us, out of our people, our country. As a sovereign, I thought I would one day visit these illustrious habitations, just never as a regal prisoner, wanting for nothing, wanting for everything. We never stood a chance, your majesty. History has ruled our every step even before our conception. Blame! What a simplistic, naive concept, and I don’t hold it in any regard. None lies with you. Yet the fault is all yours. I hold you close in my heart, dear cousin. I hate you with every fibre of my being, you contemptuous Queen. My legacy will haunt you and your England forever. This, Elizabeth, is my last letter to you and to you alone.  It may not survive me but it is writ. Yours grievously, Your Cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots

©Annika Perry

‘My True Final Letter’ was inspired by an article about Mary, Queen of Scots’ actual last letter on display at the National Library of Scotland. Why would her final writing be to her brother-in-law when surely her cousin, Elizabeth, Queen of England, must be first and foremost in her mind? 

For over two decades, Elizabeth had kept Mary as an enforced ‘guest’ across the country. Mary reigned as Queen of Scots from 1561 to 1567. However, she was forced to abdicate and flee to England after a rebellion by the protestant Scottish lords. Elizabeth, Queen of England, felt that her cousin threatened her position, yet for years managed to keep her alive in captivity. However, in February 1587, Mary was implicated in a plot to overthrow Elizabeth. Queen Elizabeth’s ministers insisted she sign her cousin’s death warrant. 

Note: Photographs from the National Library of Scotland