Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  “Oh, Madame,” she said. She could not think of any words to express her wonder.

  “It is yours to play with, and furnish, as you will. Look—here are the dolls that live in it.” Diane pointed to a group of figures in the model courtyard. To Mary’s amazement, she recognized herself there. She picked up the doll, staring at it.

  It had real hair, exactly her colour. It wore a hawking costume in green velvet, exactly like her own. And to the doll’s wrist was attached a faux hawk, made with real feathers, identical in shade to the one she owned.

  “Is it like Ruffles?” The Duchesse was smiling, looking at Mary, and suddenly Mary felt transported to Heaven, where she was cherished, safe, and shown wonder after wonder. She did not feel at home, but in some place infinitely better and more tender. She flung her arms around the Duchesse’s neck and began to cry with excitement and joy.

  “Hush, hush, ma petite.” The Duchesse smoothed Mary’s hair. “No need to cry.” Over Mary’s shoulder she motioned to the chamber attendants. Clearly the little Queen of Scots was overtired from the excitement and strain of the long journey, and needed to rest, regardless of what she said. And it was time for the Princesse Elisabeth’s nap as well. It would be good for them to take their rest together.

  “How did you know my f-falcon’s name?” Mary asked, wondering how that miracle had come about.

  “Why, we know a great deal about you, because everyone in France is curious about the brave little Queen who had to flee and take refuge from the English. Here you are already a romantic figure, and we are all in love with you.”

  “But Ruffles—how did you know?” Mary persisted.

  “From your relatives here, child. Your grandmother Antoinette de Bourbon, and your mother’s brothers, the great François and Charles, Cardinal of Lorraine. They feel as if they know you, as your mother writes and tells them everything. Soon you will meet them and they will see you in person.”

  Mary’s own nurse, Jean Sinclair, came forward to help her over to her bed. “The Princesse Elisabeth needs to rest now, and it would be polite if you would lie down as well,” she said, and Mary, for once, acquiesced. She was curious to try out the French bed. It had a gilded stepstool beside it—what other wonders did it have?

  When all the attendants except her Scottish ones had left, and Mary lay in the soft bed, with its feather mattress and huge feather pillows, covered with a white wool blanket, the Duchesse came to draw the bedcurtains. “Welcome to France,” she whispered, and kissed Mary’s forehead gently. “This is for you.” She handed her a satin pillow stuffed with fragrant herbs. “Put this under your neck and pretend you are lying down in a spring meadow, watching the clouds drift by, falling asleep.…”

  Mary sighed, clutched the scented pillow, and did as the Duchesse said, giving herself up to a sensual, indulgent sleep.

  * * *

  The next morning Mary awakened to sunlight. She remembered immediately where she was: in this foreign nursery where everything was miraculously child-sized. Then she heard murmurs in that new language that sounded as sweet as the herb-pillow smelled.

  “Bonjour, Mesdemoiselles. It is a beautiful day. Come, there is a surprise for you. The Queen of Scotland’s little horses are here! Dress quickly, and see them!”

  Mary’s clothes had all been aired, pressed, unpacked, and put away while she slept. Now Jean Sinclair—or Jehan St. Claire, as she was to be called in France—had laid them out for her already.

  She and Elisabeth were taken to another room, where breakfast—le petit dejeuner—was being served to the Dauphin as well as the four Marys and the three Stewarts. The table was heaped with baskets of fruit, shiny loaves of bread with braided designs, and several large round things on platters, with wedges cut out of them.

  François was already seated, in a special chair with high legs, and had helped himself to very little. He was staring at the plate sullenly, but looked up when Mary came in, and smiled.

  The Stewart brothers, James, Robert, and John, eyed the spread suspiciously.

  “What is that?” asked Robert, pointing to the wheel-shaped thing of pallid color.

  “C’est fromage, de Normandie.”

  “What is that in French?” asked Mary, pointing at a bowl of peaches.

  “Pêches,” said François.

  “Pêches,” repeated Mary.

  The French laughed at her pronunciation.

  “Pêches,” she repeated, correcting herself. “And this?” She indicated a jar of fruit jam.

  “La confiture,” said François. He looked pleased with himself; he felt quite knowledgeable.

  “La confiture,” she repeated, mimicking the accent well. “And this?” She picked up a loaf of bread.

  “Du pain! Du pain!” chorused the French children.

  Taking a sample of everything she named, Mary had soon eaten so much her stomach felt uncomfortable. But the children had enjoyed the meal, and getting to know one another. Now they were anxious to go outside and see what the Queen of Scotland—la Reine d’Ecosse—had brought: a gift of miniature horses.

  Out in the courtyard the shaggy little beasts were waiting, saddled and ready. Mary’s own pony, Juno, was there, as well as Lusty’s Cinders. There were a dozen others, all from the isles so far north of the Scottish mainland, most of them dark brown and all of them with thick, rough coats.

  “You may choose your favourite, my dear François,” said Mary, gesturing toward the ponies.

  He smiled, not understanding the Scots language, but comprehending the gesture.

  He walked directly to one of the smallest animals, which had a white star on the forehead.

  “I would like that one, s’il vous plaît!” he exclaimed. “And I will call her—Marie! In honour of my bride and guest!”

  Everyone laughed.

  * * *

  The next few days were spent exploring the Château of St.-Germain-en-Laye in the warm days of August. The flat roof of the palace had been transformed with trees in tubs and flowers in planters, with little benches and awnings to make a pleasant place for people to stroll about and view the countryside and the Seine valley below. The King planned to build an adjacent palace just on the edge of the slope, with terraces farther down, which could be reached either directly from the palace or by long flights of stairs on either side at a lower level. Construction would begin soon.

  The King, though kept away by affairs of state—he was inspecting coveted regions of Italy—sent a steady stream of letters north and assured the new arrivals that he and the Queen would be coming as soon as events permitted. In the meantime, they were to consider that Madame the Duchesse de Valentinois was acting entirely on His Majesty’s behalf.

  The Duchesse arranged for Mary’s relatives, the Guises, to come to meet her. She also found a Scotsman who was fluent in French to serve as a permanent translator. It must needs be a Scotsman, as no one but natives spoke either English or Scots; even the ambassadors posted to London from France, Spain, and Italy did not speak English. It was a minor language, utterly insular and useless, and shunned by the diplomatic community. But some Scotsmen sought service abroad, and here in France there were bilingual men to be found.

  * * *

  The three most formidable Guises—mother and eldest sons—came to St.-Germain in splendour, riding from their Hôtel de Guise in Paris. The old Duchesse Antoinette, mother of twelve children, straight-backed and straight-natured (she kept her coffin in the gallery outside her room, so she must see it as she passed to mass every morning), the idol and loving support of her daughter, Marie de Guise, was dressed, as always, in black. Her formidable warrior-son, François, called “le Balafre” from a battle-wound on his cheek, now thirty and the same age as the King, rode up on a huge chestnut charger. And his younger brother, Charles, who had crowned Henri II and become a cardinal only five days later at the age of twenty-three, rode on a silver-bedecked, crimson-satined mule. Together they were coming, like the Magi, to view this child in w
hom they had great hopes—this Princess and Queen who had appeared, like a star in the north, to guide the Guises to final glory. For, married to the Dauphin, yet knowing her family loyalty and instructions, must not Mary of Scotland prove to be their patron saint? And any child she had would be a quarter part Guise and they would be elevated to the ranks of royalty at last.

  True, they claimed descent from Charlemagne, but that was in the mythical, misty past, and this reputedly clever, pretty little girl was both the present and future for them, a much more solid thing.…

  So they took their journey eagerly and made their way up the steep slope to the château, thankful that the usual Guise luck held and they could meet her before the King and Queen did. Of course there was the troublesome Madame de Poitiers already installed there and living with the children, but she was only a reflection, in political terms, of the King—just as her symbol, the moon, emitted no warm light of its own, and Diana the huntress must always give way to Apollo.

  Not that Henri II, that sad, timid, unimaginative man, was any Apollo. Yet he liked to think himself so, and the court flatterers obliged him.

  At St.-Germain, they were shown into the grandest room, the Salle des Audiences. If this was intended to overawe them, it failed. As a ploy, it was too transparent. Their own château of Meudon had equally impressive rooms. Now the Italian Woman, the Queen, she was more subtle … one never knew exactly where one stood with the Italian Woman, or what her secret designs were.

  Madame de Poitiers brought little Mary Stewart—or Marie Stuart, as she was to be known in France—into the hall. The little girl, dressed beautifully in a russet gown that matched her long, curly hair and reflected the blush of colour on her cheeks, came forward shyly.

  The adults all made obeisance to her, as an anointed and reigning Queen. She stared at the tops of their hats and then gave them leave to stand up. They all looked at one another for a long moment until the Duchesse de Guise commanded through the translator, “Come here, child, and let me look at you!”

  Mary walked slowly over to her grandmother. Was this truly her mother’s mother? She did not look like her. Was this the mother who had held Marie de Guise, taught her, and written long letters to her in Scotland? She had seen her mother wait for them and read them eagerly.

  Mary presented herself to this stern-looking woman. Then the lady smiled, held out her arms, and enfolded Mary in them.

  “Thank you for coming to us,” she murmured, but of course Mary could not understand her, and the words were too soft and personal for a translator to interpret them. She understood the intent, though, and hugged the old woman back.

  “Now you must meet your uncles,” said her grandmother, pulling back and indicating them.

  “Your mother is my firstborn, my oldest child. My favourite, I think! And my next-born is François here, Duc de Guise, who is a great soldier of France, champion of the King, and eager to do service for you whenever you require it. They call him fearless—and truly he is well known for his courage, which he has proved over and over.”

  Duc François came forward and kissed her hand.

  “My next son, Charles—oh, he is altogether different. He is a scholar and a churchman, although there are those”—she put her arms affectionately around the shoulders of her two tall sons—“who think he is more handsome than his brother here.”

  This was dutifully translated.

  “I am sure His Majesty the King would be well pleased to see Cardinal Charles direct his niece la Reinette d’Ecosse in her education,” said Madame de Poitiers. “Certainly there is no one better qualified.”

  The Guises all smiled. So the King had already decided that. So much the better.

  “Do you know Latin, Marie?” asked the Cardinal.

  “Not yet.”

  “Ah, yes, soon enough. First there must be French!”

  “I believe His Majesty will arrange that as soon as he comes. She makes good progress in learning it every day on her own, and has no accent at all, but it may be necessary to send the other Scots children away, lest she talk to them and impede her development in French. We shall see.”

  “Indeed.” The grandmother nodded. “Soon all things will become clear.”

  “I think you will find her almost entirely French already,” said Madame de Poitiers. “It must be in her blood.”

  * * *

  A month passed before the King arrived at St.-Germain, a month in which Mary and her playmates were free to roam the château and its grounds, to ride and walk along the riverbanks and see the autumnal countryside sunk in mists and morning chill. Mary and François genuinely liked one another; if François’s timidity and frailty brought out all her gentle feelings, her vitality and happy disposition seemed like sunshine to him, warming and cheering his bleak and lonely nature. He was a year and a month younger than she, and looked up to her in the way a child does to whom a year is a very grand thing.

  When Mary and the King did meet, it came about in a very informal way, to the disappointment of foreign ambassadors lurking about hoping to catch the historic moment. The King had just entered the courtyard of the château, with his entourage, when Mary and her four Marys and François rode out from the stables on their ponies. Dressed in bright velvets, they looked like a procession of dolls, little feathers waving on their hats.

  Enchanted, the King dismounted and walked over to the trotting party, holding up his hands.

  “Are these faerie folk, riding out into a magic forest?” he said, smiling. He took off his riding hat and looked for François. To his surprise and delight, he was there, sitting jauntily in the saddle.

  “Papa!” he cried. Then he turned to Mary and said, “This is my father, the King! He has come at last!”

  Mary stared at him, seeing a man with a long, thin face and slanted eyes. The mouth was smiling, but the eyes were unreadable.

  “Bonjour, Your Majesty,” she said quickly, and smiled back at him.

  What a pleasing voice she had, the King thought. And that smile! It was radiant.

  “Good morning, Your Majesty,” he replied, and then, to his surprise, Mary came over to him.

  “I am so happy to be here,” she said simply. “I love France! And I love François, the Dauphin!”

  The King was relieved; so relieved he felt as though some mysterious benefactor had suddenly paid all the outstanding debts of the Crown. (It was a scene he often wistfully envisioned, so he knew full well how he would feel.) The girl was normal! Well-formed, well-spoken, pretty, sprightly! In exchange for taking on the burden of Scotland—a burden that grew greater every day—he had received a treasure after all. His François would be cherished, and would respond in kind, and if anything could promise him health.…

  “Postpone your ride for a few moments,” he said, “and come inside with me—all of you!” he ordered.

  His heart was singing, or as close to singing as it ever got.

  * * *

  The next day was rainy, with a cold, penetrating, intermittent rain that stripped the golden leaves off the trees and turned their limbs into black skeletons. There would be no riding that day; but the children, with the first excitement of staying indoors—before it had grown stale and confining—looked forward to playing rois et reines: kings and queens. They had decided to act out the story of Charlemagne and have him meet an evil queen of the forest who was holding four princesses captive (after first feeding them poisoned mushrooms to put them to sleep), and rescue them, with the help of his knights. François, of course, got to be Charlemagne; the four Marys were the victims of Mary, who got the best role as the evil queen, and the three Stewart boys were Charlemagne’s knights. They built a castle of stools and boards, and created a forest by ordering the servitors to bring in the tubbed greenery from the terrace. The valets de chambre were displeased about the mess, but François ordered them most imperiously to hold their tongues and do as they were told.

  The game was well under way when François had to seek ou
t the garderobe in a corner chamber. The greengage pears he had eaten for petit déjeuner had upset his digestion, so the Great and Mighty Charlemagne had to go relieve himself in the midst of a charge against the castle.

  “Look your last upon your victims, villainess!” he cried to Mary. “Prepare to die! I shall return!”

  When a few moments later the door opened, the last scene of the drama recommenced: the maidens lay back down stiffly like marzipan dolls, the knights flourished their daggers, and Mary drew herself up for the final battle. But instead of the great Charlemagne in his breastplate—made by strapping two meat platters together—in stepped a squat little woman.

  “What is this?” she demanded. “What is this mess?” She looked with distaste at the tub-forest, the stool-fortress, and the soldiers’ tents made of bed hangings. “Where is the Dauphin?”

  When no one answered her, she ordered, “Remove these things! Clean up this mess! Who gave you permission? Servants’ children, having the free run of the nursery—your parents will answer for this!”

  Still no one obeyed—partly because they could not understand the exact words, although they understood the intent well enough—and the woman became enraged.

  “I tell you, do as I command! Are you deaf, you little urchins?”

  Mary left the bulwark of the pillows making up the ramparts of her castle and stepped forward. Looking the woman directly in the eyes, she said, in halting French, “Are you aware, Madame, that you are speaking to, and in the presence of, the Queen of Scotland?” She lifted up her chin bravely.

  “And are you aware,” said the woman nastily, “that you are in the presence of, and speaking disrespectfully to, the Queen of France?” She watched smugly for chagrin and embarrassment to flood the little girl’s face. But Mary’s expression only changed to puzzlement and confusion. Clearly she did not think this woman looked very queenly.