Scene I opens in the Upper Cham­ber at Holy­rood, where the four Maries—Beaton, Hamil­ton, Carmichael, and Seyton—gather dur­ing a qui­et moment apart from the Queen’s pres­ence. The room car­ries a hush filled with mem­o­ry and mur­mured secrets. Mary Beat­on begins to sing in French, her voice steeped in long­ing, drift­ing through the cham­ber like a tide draw­ing in all emo­tion. Her com­pan­ions notice the sor­row cling­ing to her words and ques­tion the rea­son behind the melan­choly. Beat­on, qui­et­ly, admits that her sad­ness has lin­gered since they left France. That coun­try, once vibrant with music and court­ly glances, has become a ghost of com­fort. She miss­es not only the place but the atten­tion and warmth once offered by those she left behind. Her song, more than just melody, is a con­fes­sion she can­not oth­er­wise voice.

The dis­cus­sion shifts from Beaton’s song to a reflec­tion on love, both past and present. Mary Hamil­ton teas­ing­ly recounts a moment in the Lou­vre gardens—a game of love’s guessing—that now feels dis­tant and half-true. Beat­on lis­tens, silent and pale, while the oth­ers muse over how affec­tions change with geog­ra­phy and pow­er. Their con­ver­sa­tion turns more inti­mate when the sub­ject of Chaste­lard aris­es, not in direct men­tion at first, but hint­ed through blush­es and sud­den silences. It becomes clear that Beat­on har­bors feel­ings, unspo­ken and per­haps unre­turned, towards the poet. Her voice trem­bles when she sings again, and this time, the words cling to loss more than to long­ing. The oth­er Maries observe with­out press­ing; they know too well the dan­gers of nam­ing affec­tion in a court where whis­pers spread faster than fire.

The polit­i­cal land­scape creeps in as the Maries shift top­ics from romance to court affairs. They com­ment on the men who orbit the Queen, par­tic­u­lar­ly the mur­murs sur­round­ing Mas­ter Knox. His influ­ence, though not roman­tic, threat­ens the court’s bal­ance with his fer­vor and aus­tere judg­ment. Mary Carmichael won­ders aloud how some­one with such dis­dain for beau­ty and grace still wields so much sway among the peo­ple. Hamil­ton sug­gests it is fear that holds him up, not love. Their laugh­ter fades when Beat­on inter­jects with a com­ment about how love is no less dan­ger­ous than Knox’s ser­mons. Where he seeks con­trol through moral­i­ty, oth­ers use charm and gaze. This sub­tle shift ties their roman­tic mus­ings back to the polit­i­cal weight they live under, blend­ing per­son­al desire with pub­lic con­straint.

Darnley’s arrival pierces the qui­et rhythm of the cham­ber, bring­ing with him an ener­gy that unset­tles the calm. He is greet­ed cor­dial­ly, yet his pres­ence stirs hid­den rival­ries and half-formed alliances. His atten­tion flits between the Maries, but his inter­est in Mary Beat­on is par­tic­u­lar­ly sharp. Beat­on, how­ev­er, responds cool­ly, her mind clear­ly else­where. It becomes appar­ent that Darn­ley is both admired and mis­trust­ed. His aspi­ra­tions are known, yet his sin­cer­i­ty is always in ques­tion. The Maries watch him with a mix­ture of curios­i­ty and cal­cu­la­tion. His flir­ta­tions land soft­ly, but the echoes of them reach fur­ther than he like­ly intends.

After Darn­ley exits, the room feels changed. The Maries speak less freely, their words more mea­sured. Beat­on resumes her song once more, but now it is gen­tler, almost resigned. There is under­stand­ing among them that they can­not return to France, nor can they chase love with­out cau­tion. Their laugh­ter becomes soft­er, tinged with cau­tion rather than joy. The emo­tion­al weight of their posi­tions is felt—ladies of the court, yes, but also observers, pawns, and occa­sion­al­ly, unwill­ing play­ers in larg­er games. As the scene clos­es, the bond between the Maries holds them in qui­et sol­i­dar­i­ty, even as they face the ten­sion build­ing around them.

The cham­ber in Holy­rood reflects more than phys­i­cal space—it holds echoes of past dreams and present risks. Swin­burne uses this scene not only to intro­duce char­ac­ters but to reveal their emo­tion­al depths and vul­ner­a­bil­i­ties. The song, the con­ver­sa­tions, and the inter­rup­tions all build a sub­tle por­trait of a court in which love, duty, and pol­i­tics twist togeth­er. The four Maries are not sim­ply atten­dants to the Queen—they are women of feel­ing, mem­o­ry, and fear, nav­i­gat­ing a world that asks them to remain silent while watch­ing every­thing unrav­el.