Loch Leven

Such idolatrous nonsense. Still she holds onto this pretence after her disgrace, as a fallen queen. Flowers in the dirt. I detest her popish practices, her litany, her superstition. It is against the law and purpose of Scotland. She sews, she eats, she prays to idols, all on a scale to show her former estate. She costs the government enough. She beseeches me with her eyes, her voice still half-French from her raising and her first marriage. ‘Ah Misteer Douglas, I would another blanket,’ always for more than we can afford. She is supposed to think over her sins here, her presumption, her breaking of the law. The walls preach reconciliation, the limited space her exclusion from God’s elect, if only she would listen.

     Yet there are days when I sense her kindness to me. Her eyes open wide, she asks after my sister’s children, how are the dogs in the kitchen today? I see the light through the window illuminate her figure, how fine it is. She says she would like to have more children. The golden light covers her, it seems natural. Is it right to keep such a royal bird in this cage. I will talk to her about it. Perhaps I will fly with her.