The Legacy of Mary Queen of Scots: The Woman, The Crown, The legacy

Opening Scene: The Highlands, 1561 – A Secret Meeting at Dawn

The sky over the Highlands was a bruised shade of purple, the first hints of dawn staining the horizon. Tory pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, the cold biting through the thick wool as she knelt by the edge of the loch. Her breath curled in the air, mingling with the morning mist that clung to the water’s surface like a veil. She was alone now—save for the mountains watching silently from a distance—but she knew she wouldn’t be for long.

She had been summoned.

The letter, sealed with the mark of a powerful Highland clan, had arrived under the cover of night, delivered by a courier who vanished as quickly as he had come. The words had been clear: You are needed. The Queen’s return is imminent. Meet me by the loch at dawn. Do not be followed.

Tory’s fingers traced the edges of the letter still tucked into her cloak, her mind racing. The Queen—the true Queen—was returning to Scotland after years in France. Mary, Queen of Scots. And with her, the weight of both crowns and the promise of a future that could shift the balance of power across half of Europe.

But Scotland was not the same place Mary had left behind. The court was a viper’s nest of Protestant lords, ambitious nobles, and religious zealots who would see her toppled before she even set foot on Scottish soil.

And now, Tory had been called to play her part in the game.

The sound of footsteps broke through her thoughts. She stood, her hand instinctively moving to the dagger hidden beneath her cloak. A figure emerged from the mist—tall, broad-shouldered, with the unmistakable gait of a warrior. As he stepped closer, the dim light revealed the face of Laird Lachlan MacBain, a man whose reputation stretched across the Highlands as both a ruthless clan leader and a shrewd political player.

“Lady Tory,” Lachlan greeted, his voice low, as he stopped a few paces away. “I trusted you would come.”

She raised an eyebrow, forcing her tone to remain steady. “I had little choice, it seems.”

Lachlan’s lips twitched in the hint of a smile. “You always have a choice, but I knew your loyalty to the Stuart line would bring you here.”

Her loyalty. The word tasted bitter on her tongue.

“I’m no noblewoman,” she reminded him, her eyes narrowing. “I owe no one my loyalty. Least of all the lords who sit in Edinburgh.”