“No, Madame,” she said slowly, but with gravity and courtesy.
The two stared at one another, until François came in and shrieked, “Maman!” and ran to her. “Maman, here is my own dear Marie, come from Scotland!” and buried himself in her arms.
“Well,” said Catherine de Médicis. “We have all been curious about you, and so anxiously awaiting your arrival.” She looked down at François. “Does she please you, darling?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Then she pleases me as well. Welcome, little Marie.”
VIII
As Mary passed her days in the palace suite with the French royal children, France itself came to seem a rainbow swirl of colours to her, and Scotland resolved itself into a dark mist that receded farther and farther with each year, until she remembered almost nothing of it, the way she remembered only shreds of dreams upon awaking.
The light in France was clear, soft, and merry, especially the light in the Loire Valley, where the court travelled from one magical château to another, following the seasons and the hunt. There was Amboise, with its huge circular tower that had a spiral ramp that horsemen could ride up, five abreast, and its geometrical gardens with arabesques of boxwood and sculptures of naked men and women set in groves of evergreen. Uncle the Cardinal said this was quite all right because they were from ancient Rome—and anyway he had a number of them in his own villa, where he had built an artificial grotto as well.
There was Blois, with its grand staircase in an octagonal tower, where Mary liked to look out over the courtyard and wave to the people far below. Its gardens had elaborate fountains that could be operated to put on a water display, or to squirt passersby, and a magical house called an orangerie, where orange trees could grow their fruit far from their native land.
There was Chaumont, with its astronomical observatory and the study where Ruggieri, the Queen’s astronomer—some said necromancer—kept his instruments. Mary was not supposed to go up there, but once she climbed the steep steps to the tower room and surprised Ruggieri, who was polishing a large flat mirror. He jumped like a guilty man, but then, like everyone else, smiled when he saw who it was.
“Oh, Monsieur Astrologue, what are you doing?” she asked, approaching him.
“I am shining up my magic mirror,” he said simply.
“Can you tell my fortune?” she asked.
“Yes. I could.” He turned the mirror toward her. Her straight, slim form became even more elongated in it. “But I won’t. I am sure your future is an enviable one.”
“Then whose fortunes do you tell?”
“Those who have reason to be worried about them.”
“Do you always tell the truth? What if you see bad things?”
“Then I must tell them. But gently.” He put away the mirror. “It can be difficult.” He sighed.
* * *
There was the huge white Chambord, sitting in the midst of a great hunting forest, with its enormous kennels with royal packs of hounds, and more than three hundred falcons in the mews for hawking. The massive château—it had four hundred forty rooms—boasted a gigantic central staircase with double intertwining ramps, made so that the people going up could never see the people going down. Mary and François and the other children delighted in playing on it, taking off their shoes and trying to make the ones on the lower ramps guess where they were.
The roof bristled with a forest of chimneys, spires, and capitals, where the children could play and hide—often startling adults who were playing quite another sort of hiding game. The children thought it was screamingly funny to catch a courtier with his hose down and his breeches unbuttoned, wheezing and panting. Once they even saw a bare bottom and recognized it as that of the fat count from Angers, because of the red ribbons on his shoes. As a result of their pestering, court lovers were forced to retreat to their rooms for assignations and abandon the roof.
More sedate activities at Chambord also took place on the roof, when the King, Queen, and Diane, surrounded by all the court, would watch the start and return of hunts, military reviews, and tournaments. The flaring torches, the fireworks, and the brassy blare of trumpets in the rich air made a tapestry of sound and colour in the little girl’s mind.
Then there were Diane’s châteaux: Anet, which was a white classical palace dedicated to her widowhood and presided over by Diana the goddess, and Chenonceau, a faerie palace spanning the Cher River, rising gracefully on arches over the lazy, shallow river. Here there was nothing masculine, nothing military or commanding. Instead, everything whispered of delicate, chosen pleasures, of appetites stimulated only to be satisfied, as the water flowed slowly beneath.
Always there were the pale blue skies, stretching huge and open under the deeper blue Loire River, bounded by its golden sandbanks and bathed in a serene clear light.
* * *
Little by little the strangeness had worn off for Mary, and France and French ways had come to seem entirely natural. Each year there was a new addition to the royal nursery, so that François ruled over his little group quite naturally. She envied him that. Her own older siblings had proved a nuisance in France. They refused to adapt themselves and insisted on disrupting the language lessons, riding only the Scottish way, and carrying child-sized daggers about at court. Mary was relieved when they returned to Scotland after the first year. The Marys, however, had been eager to please and had not even protested when the King had sent them off to a convent at Poissy for a few months to immerse themselves in the language.
As for James, the oldest of all, he had hurried back to Scotland at the earliest opportunity, claiming he needed to look after his mother, widowed at Pinkie Clough. (There was also the rich monastery of St. Andrews, which the late King had left to him, to be attended to.)
That left Mary alone at court for a time, where the King, the Queen, and all the courtiers could pet and pamper her, and where—more important—she could be enveloped by them and taught their ways with no interference.
From the very beginning, all of France had fallen in love with “the gentle dove rescued from the pursuit of ravenous vultures”—as one poetic courtier described notre petite Reinette d’Ecosse.
The court, all the more romantic for its surface coating of weary cynicism, fastened with fervour onto little Marie Stuart, as they delighted to call her, that fugitive princess from a barbarous, misty land, destined someday to be their queen. It had been so long since they had had a hero or heroine to extol: François I had been too jaded and jaunty, Henri II was too mournful and plodding. Catherine de Médicis, “the Italian Woman,” was to be feared, not fêted. (Had her servant really poisoned the late Dauphin, clearing the way for shy Henri to become King? The servant had confessed, but only Catherine knew the truth of it.) Diane de Poitiers was beautiful in an otherworldly sort of way, remote, ethereal, like the goddess Diana she emulated. She struck awe in the beholder’s eye, but not devotion. Besides, she had an earthly side: she was a bit too acquisitive of land and manors to be considered a goddess all the way through.
But Marie Stuart, with her pretty face, pleasing manners, and troubled heritage, appealed strongly to the imagination of the people.
No aspect of her education was neglected. She studied the classics, learning to read and write Latin. She spoke Italian and Spanish. She was taught music, and played the lute, harpsichord, and cithern, as well as having a sweet singing voice. She studied history with de Pasquier, and wrote poetry from an early age. She danced gracefully and especially loved to perform in masques and ballets. She laboured over her needlework and enjoyed designing her own patterns for embroidery.
At the same time, she loved the outdoors, and was skilled at riding, archery, hawking, the hunt. She liked nothing better than to sneak off and practise with her scaled-down bows and arrows with the youngest members of the Scottish Archers, who served as an honour guard to the King.
One day in particular, in early spring when she was just past seven, she had scrambled out past th
e ever-alert Lady Fleming and managed to get outside at Fontainebleau, where she knew the archers liked to practise in the woods. She had a particular favourite, Rob MacDonald, who was only eighteen and a little homesick himself, and always glad to see her. She had made friends with him, and yet she hoped the day would someday come when she would be able to shoot better than he, at least once in a while.
Sure enough, he was on the outskirts of the woods, practising with his fellows.
“Your Majesty!” he said when he saw her. “So you got away again!”
“Yes!” she said breathlessly. She did not know why she was compelled to do it, or why the other children never seemed to want to. She loved the Marys, and François, but there was a side to her they could not understand, and she felt she had to keep it secret. “And I have brought my bow.” She proffered the beautifully tempered and seasoned instrument, with its quiver of arrows all inlaid with her royal crest.
“Good,” he said. He nodded toward his companions. “We were just practising at this target. Would you like to start there?”
She nodded. She liked hearing him speak Scots. She did not want to forget it, but she had little opportunity to hear it and speak it for any length of time. She drew out an arrow and fitted it to her bowstring, pulled back as hard as she could, and let fly. The arrow hit at the very edge of the target.
“Achh!” said Rob, almost as disappointed as she was.
“I’ll try again!” She pulled out a second arrow, and it did a little better, hitting closer to the centre.
For an hour they alternated shooting, Rob instructing her on the fine points of the sport.
“If you wish to be a good shot, this is the way.” He was very patient.
Tired at the end, she said, “But for you it is not a sport. For you it is a livelihood. Why is it that Scotsmen fight for the French King? And how did you come here?”
He put down his big bow; his was almost six feet in height, and could shoot an arrow a hundred yards or more. “The French and the Scots have been friends a long time,” he said. “They had the same enemy, England, and those who have the same enemy can be fast friends indeed. They call it the “Auld Alliance,” and it is old; it goes back two hundred years at least. As to why there’s a Scots Archer Guard—why, everyone knows Scotsmen are the best soldiers in the world!”
“But you aren’t answering my question! Not all of it, anyway. Why are you here?”
“I had a desire to see something besides my own shores, if only to be content to return to them someday. If I wish to live in my native land and love her, it should not be out of ignorance. There are many other Scots here; hordes of them come over to study in Paris. Have you met any of them?”
She laughed. “No! How would I? I cannot roam the streets of Paris as I can the forest of Fontainebleau.”
His captain was sounding a horn. “You’d best be going,” Rob said. “I am called to regular duties.” He looked at her and smiled. “I will never betray your secret, Most Imperial Royal Huntress. Here.” He handed her back a fistful of her arrows. “It’s best you not leave these in the woods.”
* * *
By the time she carefully made her way back into the children’s quarters of the palace, the younger ones were just waking up from their naps. Dinner would be served soon, and Mary had worked up a fierce appetite.
Usually the children ate by themselves, watched over by all their nurses and governesses. Today, however, the Queen gave orders that they were to eat with her, in her own quarters. Dutifully they trooped to her privy chamber, where a table was set with crystal goblets and golden plates for the children who were able to comport themselves with such finery: Mary herself, Lusty, Flamina, Beaton, and Seton, François and Elisabeth. Mary felt vaguely sorry for François, surrounded as he was entirely by girls; Rob was better off in the forest.
“Pray, dine with me,” the Queen was saying, her oddly expressionless eyes counting them off one by one as they filed into the room. The Queen was pregnant again; soon there would be another child in the nursery.
She fussed over François and insisted on draping his napkin herself. Then she settled down, with a great sigh of her skirts, and began watching them eat. Mary felt her appetite draining away under the scrutiny.
“My dear children,” Catherine de Médicis was saying, “we will soon be moving to Chambord for the summer. Now you know that means you will have to leave the pet bear here, where his keeper is. Nonetheless, you may select a hound for yourselves from the kennels at Chambord.”
François slammed his fist down on the table. “Want the bear!” he muttered. He was especially fond of the bear, a recent gift, and had named him Old Julius.
Catherine de Médicis’s eye fell on him like a black cloud. He fell silent.
“And we must prepare ourselves to entertain a most marvelous embassy from abroad. The Queen Mother of Scotland is coming.” She slid her eye over to Mary. “Yes, my dear, your mother is coming to France!”
* * *
For the next few months Mary prepared for the visit. To see her dear mother again! It seemed as if the seven-year-old’s prayers had been answered, for every night since she had arrived in France she had added a wistful request that her mother come and see her.
She worked extra hard on her Latin; memorized French poetry and studied history as much as she could. She pestered her guardian, John Erskine, who had remained in France with her, to tell her all about what was happening in Scotland. He tried to explain about the continuing problems with the English, but Mary could not really grasp any of it. She understood only that her mother was coming.
* * *
Marie de Guise landed in France during the summer of 1550, and she brought a number of Scottish lords with her. King Henri II and Queen Catherine prepared a royal reception in Rouen, and Mary’s tutor made her memorize a long, formal greeting to her mother. But when Mary, trembling with excitement, was brought into the salle where her mother was waiting, she forgot her speech and flew into her mother’s arms.
She hugged her so fiercely her arms crushed the Queen Mother’s stiff petticoats and made them crackle. It was not until then that she knew she had not really hugged anyone without restraint since she had come to France.
“Oh, Maman!” she cried, and to her embarrassment tears flooded her eyes.
Her mother was stroking her hair, clasping her to herself. Mary’s head came up to her mother’s bosom, and her tears were staining the jewelled bodice.
“My dearest, beloved daughter!” Marie de Guise took Mary’s face in her hands and lifted it up. “Look how you have grown! Soon we cannot call you petite Reinette at all.” She looked around at the entire court and said, “Soon she will be old enough to have her own royal household, and appoint her own officials!”
Mary could not imagine why her mother would say that; she was not even old enough yet to insist that François could take his pet bear with him when they changed palaces. But she squeezed her mother’s hand and looked up at her adoringly. Just to hear that almost-forgotten voice was heaven.
* * *
Marie de Guise joyfully met with her brothers, and the three of them would sit down with little Mary and discuss their plans for her. Her education, under the direction of the Cardinal, seemed to be progressing well; her mother was pleased.
“I believe you can start studying Greek next year,” Uncle Cardinal said. “Your Latin is quite sound. Do you not think so?” he asked his sister.
“Mine is not sound enough to judge!” she said. “But certainly, add Greek if you feel she is ready. And my dear le Balafre—what is your assessment of the household situation?”
The muscular Duke stirred on his seat; clearly, sitting for a long time was hard for him. “I think we must propose a separate household as soon as it is feasible. But I warn you, the King and Queen prefer to have her as part of their own establishment.”
“But I don’t want a separate household!” cried Mary, suddenly. “I would rather live with the r
oyal children, and especially François.”
Marie’s eyes widened. “Oh, so you like François?”
“Yes.” Why were they all asking these questions?
“That’s good, that’s very good,” said Uncle le Balafre. “But remember, you have the rest of your life to live with him. As you bcome a little older, it will be better for you to have your own establishment.”
“But why? And better for whom?”
“For you, child, for you,” said Uncle Cardinal. “If François can see you every day, as if you were a sister, why, then, he may come to think of you that way rather than as a wife.”
“But I will miss him!” She did not want to be sent to a separate household, where there would undoubtedly be too many adults.
“Well, we shall see,” said her mother soothingly. “It may not come to pass at all.”
* * *
When they were alone, her mother took pleasure in inspecting her quarters. She had Mary show her all the chests of beautiful clothes, the bags and shelves of toys, the carved furniture that was scaled to child’s size. At length she sat down on one of the little chairs, overhanging it. She took Mary’s hands and looked deep into her eyes.
“Now for the truly important things,” she said solemnly, and Mary wondered what these could be.
“Yes, Maman?”
“Your faith. Have you been preparing that as well as your school lessons? For it is much more important.”
“Yes, Maman. We have a chaplain here, he’s a very kind and learned man—”
“It is time you had a confessor! I will see to it that a suitable one is assigned to you, to you alone. Do you understand?”
Mary started to answer when she saw how tired her mother looked. There were little lines around her eyes, and her mouth did not smile naturally or easily. “You are troubled,” she finally said, instead of answering. “What is it that troubles you so?”
“The hardness of the world,” the Queen Mother finally said. She thought of the scant thanks she had gotten for her pains in arranging for the Scots prisoners to be freed from the French galleys. No sooner were they free than Knox and his fellows began to pour venom on her, attacking her religion and her government. “Yet I would still tell you—and I wish you to remember this always—that kindness and goodness are the paramount virtues, no matter what the world is like.”
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 8