For My Sins

by Alex Nye

  I did not know what she meant.

  Her black Italian eyes narrowed with envy and spite, a look that would become familiar to me over the years as her dislike of me grew.

  “How delightful!” she said silkily, bidding me step forward.

  I shyly subjected myself to her inspection.

  She was the King’s wife. I was to become part of their household; the House of Valois. I would eat with the royal children, share their nursery, their schoolroom,

  their routines and rituals, and whatever else came my way. King Henri insisted that I be treated like one of his own. I do not think this arrangement pleased his wife.

  The Medici woman studied me as if I was an insect – one to be feared. Her own children were special to her, of course, and she was not overly keen on having to take me under her wing.

  I was treated as a novelty at first, and I took pleasure in that initially. I missed my mother, but in time I began to adjust and adopt the foreign ways of France. Scotland gradually – over the years – became a distant memory, vague and dreamy, obscured by mist and cloud. Bright vignettes would break through from time to time, fragments of memory, but like all children I learned to adapt. My future father-in-law, Henri, insisted that I speak French instead of my native Scots. But I clung quite tenaciously to my Scottish identity. I was not to be as easily biddable as they imagined. My mother had taught me the importance of maintaining always my dual nationality, and my birth-right to the Scottish throne.

  “Oh, show us how you dress in Scotland again?” I was surrounded by a semi-circle of well-fed, shining-faced siblings in the royal nursery.

  “And speak Scots for us again. It sounds so funny!” they laughed.

  The Medici woman broke their ranks. “Don’t mock Marie, my dears. It does not become you. Although the foreign tongue does sound unusually guttural, does it not?”

  I eyed her suspiciously. She held an air of dark menace for me, even as I adjusted and fitted into the royal nursery and its way of life. I was never quite sure of her affection, even when she pretended to like me.

  When they teased me like this not all of the royal children joined in. Little Francois held back. He was pale and thin. He was never one to taunt me. I liked him for his kindness.

  “Did your father speak with a rough tongue?” they asked me.

  “I don’t know. I can’t remember him.”

  “Did he tear meat from the bone with his bare hands?”

  “Scotland is a rugged barbarous hill country. I heard the Cardinal of Lorraine say so.”

  I stared at them. A memory flew into my head – of wind and speed and movement, of a heathery terrain flashing beneath the hooves of a galloping horse, the splashing of mud and water at a lochside, the powerful breath of the animal conveying us. It ended quickly. I looked up. The memories would become more muddled over the years, harder to disentangle reality from fantasy.

  Francois’s pale face regarded me.

  “She does not wish to speak of it,” he said gently, with a surprising authority. The others turned to him. The spell was broken, the semi-circle of sibling relatives drifted away to seek other amusement.

  Although I sometimes revelled in the novelty lifestyle, the comforts and the luxuries which had been unknown in Scotland, I was under no illusions. Part of me was always aware how spoiled and indulged were the children of the House of Valois. They were pandered and fussed over like a menagerie of tame birds. There was a hothouse atmosphere about the French court, an air of unreality. It did not always compare favourably with my native Scotland.

  It has been said that I loved France and wept to leave it.

  But no one knows how much I missed my mother, and how in doing so I came to love my native Scotland.

  During these years of captivity in England, is it France I dream of?

  By the time I celebrated my ninth birthday at the

  French court I had grown used to the fact that the only communication I had with my mother was by letter. Letters flew back and forth across the ocean that separated us. She advised me, cajoled me, kept me informed of proceedings in Scotland, told me to seek counsel from my Guise uncles. She said that I would prosper and benefit from the education they could give me. I shudder to think of those words now, how misguided her prophecy, how forlorn her hope. My poor mother had entrusted me to her relatives because she had no choice. She thought – by doing this – she would rescue me from a worse fate.

  Meanwhile, the Medici woman made it clear where her real loyalties lay. She cosseted and cherished her own children, tolerated and criticised me. Whatever King Henri’s wishes, she made it obvious I was there on sufferance.

  On my birthday I received the present of a small pony and was filled with delight. These tokens were making up for the absence of my mother, it is true, and at first I looked forward to the party that King Henri insisted they should throw for me.

  A maid stood behind me and threaded tiny, opaque seed pearls into my hair. I stood admiring the jewel-like glimmer, turning my head this way and that to catch the light. Suddenly another face loomed behind me in the mirror. I jumped. Her dark witch-like eyes held mine.

  “If you look in the mirror too often, God will wither that pretty face of yours, my dear. Remember, ‘Sin is a beast lurking at the gate.’”

  Then she flashed a malicious smile and was gone.

  No one witnessed this little exchange or noticed the way my face fell. I did not enjoy the party after receiving this sharp rebuke and little Francois wondered why I was so subdued. He did not know that his own mother was the cause of my gloom.

  Later, as we skidded across the parquet floor playing musical chairs, I saw the Italian witch appear in a doorway. I withdrew from the game and stood half-concealed behind a pillar, pretending I did not feel well.

  It was in subtle ways like this that the Medici woman made her presence felt in my life and increased my unease. I was happier in the company of Diane de Poitiers, mistress to the King, which of course did not please my future mother-in-law. I had made friends with her enemy – accidentally. I simply accepted whatever kindnesses were offered to me.

  My mother’s own family, the Guises, were a powerful clan at the French court, and she had entrusted

  me to their care and protection. There was my grandmother Antoinette and then there were my uncles, but one uncle figured larger than all the rest. The Cardinal of Lorraine fixed on me from an early age, although his influence was double-edged, poisonous. When my mother wrote to me asking questions about my education in the business of statesmanship, she could never guess at the

  secrets I might be forced to keep. And when I wrote to her in reply I remained mute on the subject. I did not lie, but I distorted the truth, withheld information. For how could I do otherwise? And who would have believed me?

  The Cardinal loomed large in my universe.

  He frightened me with his lecherous looks and his camphorous breath. He wore huge capes, and when I was a child I thought he had black velvet wings and flew at night above the spires and pinnacles of Joinville.

  In Paris we used to attend Mass every morning – Francois and I. After this we were allowed breakfast, but I ate sparingly because I was dreading what was to follow. I had to go to my uncle’s study for lessons. He was a ruthlessly ambitious man; he steeled me against the possibility of treachery and deceit.

  “You are the jewel of our family,” he told me. “We invest our greatest hopes in you. Watch. Be on your guard. That is the secret of success.”

  Rise high and I shall rise high with you. A leech sucking my blood.

  The purpose of these private sessions was to instruct me in the art of politics. He took upon himself the responsibility of my education, but I was miserable all day until I had left that darkened chamber. The smell of camphor took hours to fade away.

  When my mother was at last able to travel to Fr
ance to visit me, I was ecstatic. We were very close, despite our years of enforced separation. She spent a full six months at the French court, but only days before she was due to depart for Scotland again, learned of a conspiracy to poison me. Terrified, she and my Guise relatives ensured that the perpetrators were executed, but she decided to prolong her stay and refused to leave my side. She remained with me for another six months after that. I was too young to fully understand the implications of this incident, though my mother hinted darkly that there was more to a plot like this than the immediate perpetrators’ involvement. In other words, who else had been behind this dreadful scheme?

  I watched my mother’s eyes swivel towards Catherine de Medici. It was said she resented the influence my Guise relatives had at the court. I thought of my uncle’s words during our lessons.

  “Watch. Be on your guard.”

  I was a precious commodity in his eyes, his passport to future power and success.

  My mother – wisely or unwisely – left me in his care again, as she finally boarded a boat for Scotland. Trouble was brewing in our faraway kingdom, and she could not delay her return any longer.

  She bid me a tearful farewell, but her brave smile hid her dark concern and fears for me. I do not often try to recall the moment of our parting. I prefer to let it rest in peace. Her face was strained and pale, concealing the pain she no doubt felt. She returned to Scotland to manage the warring factions of the lords in my absence. She had a mammoth task ahead of her, which she stuck at for another nine years or so. She kept my throne safe for me. It was an act of love, sacrifice and devotion – I know this now.

  I never saw her again.

  My memory of my mother has never faded – she has remained a strong, absent presence in my life, if there is such a thing. Her bright, courageous spirit and the example she set me were always with me. And I knew one thing for certain. Had I remained at her side throughout my childhood she would have equipped me for ruling a kingdom like Scotland much better than my French Guise uncles ever could.

  She underestimated her own talents and strength.

  She should have kept me by her side – in Scotland – where I still belong. But I do not resent her decision, or berate her for it. She did what she had to do as a mother, and I appreciate her sacrifice. The bond I had with her is the strongest I have ever known.

  Paris

  April 1558

  As I prepared to marry Francois, heir to the French throne, my mother became Regent of Scotland and ruled in my absence, struggling to keep the kingdom in relative peace. The Protestant nobles of the Reformed Kirk now had a stranglehold, and once John Knox returned to his native land he increased the pressures against my mother. He was determined that Scotland should become a Protestant country, by violence and any other means. He encouraged the people to tear down statues, destroy monasteries and abbeys.

  Meanwhile, nuptial preparations were underway for my marriage to the Dauphin – which had been agreed upon when I first set sail for France at five years of age. My mother was unable to attend the wedding in Notre Dame. Knox was stirring up more trouble, and it would have been unsafe for her to leave Scotland at that time.

  I wrote to her often, describing every miniscule detail of the event. I thought it marked a new beginning for me, a dazzling future as Queen of France.

  I wore a grey, velvet train borne by thirty pages, and my jewels flashed in the sunlight as I moved slowly towards a canopy of blue Cyprus silk, spangled with golden fleur-de-lis. Musicians clad in red and yellow satin poured their music into the air. Before me I could see the great twin towers of Notre Dame rising up darkly into the sky.

  They cast a long shadow.

  This was what my uncle had dreamed of. I was to become the Dauphiness, married to the heir to the French throne, one of the most powerful kingdoms in Europe.

  I had been reared for this.

  I was sixteen years of age. I glanced at Francois at my side. He was younger than me. I would look after him, protect him. Together, side by side, we would succeed in living up to what was expected of us.

  The memory of our short time together is strange to recall. We were playmates together in the nursery; he was like a brother to me. We slept side by side like children in the giant bed, but our marriage was never consummated. It did not occur to either one of us to break the spell of the childish bond between us, and in truth I do not think we really knew how. All we knew was that we had loved each other as children and so could love each other now.

  When King Henri was killed in a jousting accident a year later, the court went into mourning. Catherine de Medici grieved. Overnight Francois had become King of France. And I was his Queen.

  I was barely seventeen when they crowned me in Rheims.

  My uncle’s eyes were gleaming, fixed, glutted with greed as he watched those gems sparkle on my brow. I was caught in his web, netted.

  His assumption was that he would be able to control me – it is a common assumption made by men – so he was rather surprised when I stood up to him. When I began to resist his efforts to ‘educate’ me and sought to make my own decisions independently, he was greatly displeased. I don’t think he ever forgave me.

  He tried to subdue me, made excuses to arrange meetings in private, but as the Queen of France I refused to attend.

  I began to loathe him, his touch, the great black cape waiting to enfold me in its musty embrace, the smells, the odours of defilement.

  Francois and I tried to support each other in our difficult new role but it was an irksome task.

  For there was yet another who sought to control us.

  Catherine de Medici.

  Versailles

  December 1560

  This was a year of profound and bitter loss for me. News of my mother’s death in Scotland arrived ten days after she had passed. Instead of the usual correspondence from her there was a letter from the ambassador, telling of her passing.

  Soon after this, Francois, who had often been unwell when we were children, contracted an ear infection which turned into an abscess on the brain. I watched him struggle for his life on the huge bed, a marmoreal slab bearing his slender frame, but it was my mother I was thinking of.

  I waited with him in the closeness and cloying misery of the sick-room for death to come. He died one morning at dawn, after a long night of watching, and when I woke I saw his mother grieving over his lifeless body.

  I knelt at the bedside and wept.

  The Medici woman looked at me strangely.

  “Enough time for tears, Marie. You have packing to do.”

  I looked up at her, aghast.

  “There are jewels to be replaced in their coffers.”

  Still I did not understand her.

  “You are no longer Queen of France, my dear. I fear it was a very short reign for you, after all.”

  I was shocked at her words and the sentiment behind them. I stared at her, waiting for some kind of confirmation that I had misheard or misread her intention. But none came.

  This was a woman who knew – even in the depths of her grief – what she wanted. She had been content to sit and wait, and her waiting was not in vain.

  Catherine de Medici, the new Regent, ruled.

  She had other children to console her and assuage her grief. My mother had only me. And she had lost me to this life of pettiness in the French court.

  Paris

  July 1561

  A period of mourning followed in which I avoided my Guise uncles and was acutely aware of their disappointment in me. I had been their brightest hope, borne the burden of their ambition, but it was not to be.

  I sat in lonely silence in my darkened rooms, considering my future. I was entitled to a queen dowager’s pension but would be expected to lead a quiet life in the shadows, on the fringes, while the Medici woman ruled.

  I was not ye
t ready for a quiet life.

  I thought of my mother, her intelligent rearing of me and all that she had done to make Scotland secure. I missed her deeply. While I grew up in the pleasure-loving Renaissance court of France, a part of me had been left behind with my mother across the ocean, where she struggled to govern Scotland for me in my absence. Now that she was gone, there was a vacuum.

  There was an empty throne waiting for me, and a country in need of governance. I was beginning to understand that destiny was pulling me away from the home where I had lived for the last twelve years, and taking me back to my beginnings.

  I would go where Fate directed me.

  As if to confirm this belief my half-brother, Lord James Stuart, stepped into the breach. He arrived from Scotland, bringing the tang of sea-mists with him and the ring of his Scottish dialect.

  I was still in deep mourning at the time and ordered my attendants to bring in some light. Candles were lit and the dark room began to flicker and glow. Umber shadows retreated into the corners as my brother stood in the doorway, tall and fair in the manner of our Scottish ancestry. He hesitated, then gave a courteous bow of the head.

  “Lord James,” I cried. “I am so pleased to see you.”

  “The pleasure is all mine.”

  Once the awkward pleasantries were over he told me the reason for his visit.

  “I have a specific purpose in coming here.”

  “I did not doubt it.”

  “Have you considered your future here in France?” he asked bluntly.

  “I have,” I replied. “And it is bleak.”

  “I have come to urge you to return to Scotland. It is unwise to leave the throne empty for much longer. There is a power vacuum, which is never advisable in a country like ours, filled with hot-headed nobles as it is. Factions may develop.”

  When I think of his words now, an ironic smile plays on my lips.