Matt Ford

Mary's stomach lurches at the sight of a long table seating a dozen men.

Her brother is not alone.

The men are all unwashed, bearded.

Some have missing teeth.

She's never seen such a motley crew.

My lords.

She straightens up to her full five foot eleven, steadies her gaze on her brother.

Dear sister, I regret the disturbance that greeted you, although I imagine you expected opposition.

Mary is sure she catches two of the lords smirking.

Her eyes drift to the walls.

The tapestries are wrong.

Gone are the Catholic saints.

In their place hang dull cloth.

Dread starts to settle in her stomach.

She knows Scotland has changed in her absence.

Last year, greedy Protestants, spurred on by the English, stripped her country of its rightful Catholic order.

But grief has a way of narrowing the world.

She's been so consumed with the loss of her husband.

Since Francis died, she's given little thought to what this revolution has done to her homeland.

But I had hoped my people might welcome their queen, even a Catholic one.