Poetry by Kate Garrett: Mary at the murder of Rizzio

Mary at the murder of Rizzio

March 1566

The little things drive Henry to fractured
senses. Little things 
                like me, sitting down 
to dinner with my closest friend. It is Lent 
and the world is hungry for martyrs.

I am his queen but somehow less than,
       withering under my gift of child.

There is a spectre in dark armour at the door
– perhaps a vision given life by my weariness. 
Or perhaps Lord Ruthven, pale and feverish –

sword drawn, his men behind him
pushing daggers against my throat. 

They rip David from my side, their hands are knives:
fifty slashes and more to his cooling corpse. 

As his blood tints the boards, an autumn 
forest floor in greening spring, I cannot cry

because inside the crib of my own bones
      the babe kicks and twists and dreams
             of harts and hounds – beasts 
                     he’s not yet seen, cannot yet name.