A cry rose from the spectators on the balcony. Mary looked out onto the field, and saw the King pitching forward, a splintered lance sticking out of his open visor. Blood spurted out between the golden bars of the cagelike visor, drenching the horse’s neck.
Catherine screamed. Diane sat as if cast in stone.
“Christ on His throne!” breathed the Cardinal, rising and clutching the balustrade.
The King was being taken down from his horse, as stiff as a scarecrow, except for a convulsive twitch every few seconds. They laid him on a stretcher and bore him away, before the Queen or any of the royal family could move from the stands or go to him.
“No!” screamed Catherine. “I warned him! I told him! I begged him!” She rushed down to the field and threw herself, weeping, on the horse’s bloody neck.
“Come,” said the Cardinal. He held Mary’s elbow and raised her up. “To your carriage. They will have taken him back to the Hôtel des Tournelles. Go to him.”
Mary obeyed and entered her ceremonial car, emblazoned with all her titles. Her coachman started up the horses, and the heralds ran ahead, announcing loudly, “Make way, make way, for Her Majesty the Queen of Scotland and England.” Their voices were swallowed up in the yells of the crowd, jostling and excited.
In the Hôtel des Tournelles—the Cardinal had guessed correctly—the King lay on a narrow bed, attended by his physicians. The lance had entered his right eye, and blinded it. Splinters of the wood, it was feared, had penetrated his brain.
* * *
For ten days the King lingered, as the splinters from the lance festered in his brain and infection spread. Sometimes he was lucid, sometimes not. But the puzzling thing to Mary was that she sensed he was neither surprised nor reluctant to go to his death at only forty-one. It was as if he were greeting death as a not unwelcome, or unexpected, caller.
Catherine had evidently been warned, both by her astrologer Ruggieri and by Nostradamus, by whom she set great store, of a disaster. In addition, she had had a disturbing dream the night before. All these things she had told her husband, and he had ignored them. Or had he? Had he actually welcomed them and embraced them? His actions seemed to belie a wish to live. He had insisted on running the final course, even in the face of Catherine’s pleas, and the wish of his opponent to stop. The King had commanded the reluctant opponent to face him, or be punished.
François stood by his father’s bed, pale and shaky. He himself was not well; the earache had subsided, but his fever persisted.
“Father!” he cried. “Do not leave me!”
His father sighed and opened his eyes halfway, as if it were too much effort to open them all the way. “My son,” he said, in an almost normal voice, “you are about to lose your father, but not his blessing. May God grant you more happiness than ever He has granted me.”
François threw himself sobbing on the bed. His father’s chest felt solid and warm, and he believed if he just held him tightly enough, he could keep him forever.
Mary embraced François, putting her arms around him from behind. His thin shoulders were shaking.
The King’s eyes closed. He looked asleep. But then Ambroise Paré, the physician, took his pulse. In a moment he shook his head.
“Your Majesty, the King is dead,” he said. He was speaking to François.
“No!” François clung to his father.
“Your Majesty,” said the Cardinal. He motioned to Mary, who drew her husband up for the recognition.
“We pledge you our lives and our loyalty,” said the Cardinal. “We will serve you as long as life remains.”
François rubbed his eyes. His mother was weeping. “Maman!” He held out his arms to her, ignoring the Cardinal. “Maman!”
Together they stumbled out to the door of the hôtel, where an anxious crowd was waiting. Let the Cardinal make the announcement; they would leave for the Louvre. A royal coach was drawn up outside, under a linden tree. They made to enter it. Mary stood aside to be the last to enter, out of respect for her mother-in-law. But suddenly, Catherine de Médicis drew back, and looked at her as calmly as if it had been an ordinary day.
“You must enter before me,” she said, in her low voice. “The Queen of France takes precedence over a queen dowager.”
XVI
Mary found herself unable to eat from noon on, she was so nervous about her upcoming evening—the first where she and François would preside as King and Queen of France. It was to be a simple affair, and planned by Mary herself, which made her all the more nervous, as every aspect of its success or failure could thus be traced to her.
For several years she had had a private garden of her own on the grounds of one of the smaller châteaux. Diane de Poitiers had noticed her love of flowers, and had helped her to plan this entirely white garden just below the terrace, leading up to the tranquil waters of an ornamental pool.
“For you seem to have a special affinity for white,” she had told the girl. “And a white garden can be magnificent by moonlight. And did you know there are some flowers that open only in the dark, and give off the most lush perfumes? They come from Persia.”
Diane. Banished now from court, sent away by Catherine de Médicis as soon as Henri II was decently buried. But her garden flourished, and over the years Mary had lovingly tended it and added more flowers to it, until now it extended over a large area, embracing the pool tenderly in a scented frame.
The party would take place here. The guests would stroll along the leafy paths, illuminated by lanterns until the full moon rose and made the white flowers glow. Both French and Scottish musicians would be at hand, walking about, mingling with the guests, playing their violas, lutes, pipes and quihissels; Mary hoped the very informality of it would put everyone at ease—herself and François most of all.
“Madam,” said a familiar voice behind her, “is it still to be a Party of Youth?”
Mary turned to see Flamina standing nearby. Her Marys were now her ladies-in-waiting, her most trusted inner circle. She had not expected that becoming Queen of France would change anything between them, but the truth was that they now treated her differently—calling her “Madam” reverently, for example. Or perhaps it was the fact that she was now married.
“No,” she said with a laugh. “We were prevailed upon to allow some of the older courtiers to come. But it will still be mainly young people.”
Originally François had requested that no one over twenty-five be allowed to attend. But when she had reminded him that meant none of the Pléiad—the group of seven classically inspired poets that gave the court its literary lustre—could attend, he had relented about the age rule. “But only those poets,” he had insisted. “Not your uncles!”
“Not even little René?” she had begged. “Besides, he’s twenty-four.”
“I am tired of your uncles,” he had complained. “And they will just bring gloomy news, and ruin the party. All their news is gloomy.”
“Good,” said Flamina. She tossed her head. Her old childhood exuberance and vitality had lost nothing in its transition to womanhood.
“Is there anyone in particular you hope to see? I hope I have invited him!”
“No.”
Men were constantly drawn to Flamina, but they seemed never to forget her mother’s proclivities and assume the daughter shared them, so she had developed a strong right arm in fending the lovers off.
“Madam!” Now Beaton joined them—honey-sweet, melting, daydreaming. “Will all be right tonight? Is the moon to be full?” Her large brown eyes were eagerly questioning.
“Indeed, unless it goes backward and is less full tonight than it was last night, skipping the full moon entirely this month!” said Flamina, a trifle shortly.
Below them, the gardeners were busy raking the paths, strewing them with petals, and staking the flowers that were nodding, top-heavy with blooms. Their apprentices followed along behind, watering and weeding.
In the back of the garden, a yew hedge had grown
to shoulder height since the childish Mary had first set out the knee-high plants. The ornamental pond had become almost overgrown with water lilies, opening their huge, waxy flowers like yearning mouths.
“And you yourself will not wear white, will you?” asked Beaton anxiously. “If it is to be a white theme—”
“No,” said Mary quickly. “Mourning is over.”
She had worn the mourning veil for the required forty days after the death of Henri II. François had been crowned King at Reims shortly thereafter, and Mary had been determined to get him out of mourning as quickly as possible to help his spirits recover. He clearly wished to remain in seclusion and mourning as long as possible in hopes of postponing assuming the duties of ruling. But the longer he waited, the more dreadful they seemed to him. So Mary gently coaxed him out in the sunshine and back onto his favourite horse (the Arab had arrived as promised), and gradually he began to warm to the task set before him.
This evening’s entertainment was just part of her efforts to ease him into his new authority. She knew he would not be intimidated by an event held in one of his smaller palaces, and limited only to young people and friends. François had permitted her to plan it and select his clothes for him.
“And Maman is not to be allowed to come?” he had asked gleefully.
“No, she is too old!” Mary had assured him.
There had developed friction between Catherine de Médicis and the Guises, with the former trying to manage domestic policy and the latter foreign policy.
“I hope the sky is completely clear,” said Beaton. “It would not do to have a cloud to mar the light!”
Dear, tender-hearted Beaton, always worrying about conditions.
“If there are, we will just claim they are part of the decorations,” said Flamina.
Flamina and Beaton made their way over to the lily pond and attempted to pick one of the blossoms. Immediately two of the gardeners—young and handsome, Mary noted—rushed to help them.
“What a charming picture.”
The Cardinal! He had stolen in and was now standing only a few feet away on the terrace, the soft air playing with the hem of his churchly robe. He cocked his head at her as he had since she was a child; his manner toward her had not changed.
“Now, you know you cannot come!” she chided him.
“Ah! Cruelle dame!” He clutched at his bosom. “And here is the most coveted invitation in France just now—the first fête of Their Glorious Majesties François II and Marie. Where have I failed?”
“What is it you wish?” Of late his nosy inquiries and attempts to direct and control her—subtly disguised, or so he thought—were putting her off.
“Only to share with you some intelligence from Scotland.” He made as if he were hurt—slightly. “Or are you no longer concerned with that small, troublesome realm?”
Not Scotland again. Yes, she was still concerned with it, deeply concerned. But could the news from there never be pleasant? “Of course I am. What is it?”
She indicated a wooden bench in the shade of an ornamental shrub, and they took their places side by side.
“I hate to be the one to tell you, but the ships you sent to aid your mother…”
Eight of them, loaded with three thousand soldiers, she remembered. The pride of France.
“… were wrecked in violent storms, and all lost.”
“Storms! But it is too early for storms!”
The Cardinal coughed gently. “I know. I know. Perhaps Master Knox controls the winds and seas. They seem to obey him, at any rate.”
“Knox! And his mobs have overrun the country, looting and burning, worse than the English armies!”
“They’ve joined forces now,” said the Cardinal softly.
“What do you mean?” The bright day seemed ominous, as if Knox might suddenly materialize out of one of the hedges, or the trimmed topiary take on his shape.
“I mean that the rebels—the ones who declared your sweet mother suspended from the Regency—have signed a treaty of alliance with England, and that Queen Elizabeth has formally taken Scotland ‘under her protection.’ This allows her openly to send an English army in to aid the rebels, which is what she is doing.”
“But—upon what grounds?”
“Upon the grounds that she must defend England against a French army.”
“My mother’s army! The help I send her!”
“Exactly.”
The Cardinal had managed to ruin the party without even being there. “I shall send more and more forces!” she said fiercely. “They shan’t prevail!”
* * *
After the Cardinal left—reluctantly, she knew—Mary sat staring down at her own feet for a few moments. Clearly she and François would need to make a royal visit to Scotland. Surely that would calm the troubles there. Scotland bewildered her in its swift turn against the religion of its forefathers, under the direction of the fiery Knox. No other country had seen such a quick rise of Protestantism, and of such a virulent type. These Lords of the Congregation—who were they? Were they truly devout, or just power-hungry? And this Knox—what sort of a churchman openly carried a two-handed sword and preached revolution? It was a type never seen before.
Yes. She must visit Scotland. After she and François had become accustomed to their demanding positions here in France.
* * *
The sun had set, leaving behind red-purple streaks and a little escort of clouds clustered at the horizon, before the party assembled. King François, grown surprisingly taller in the past year, stood awkwardly on the highest step of the terrace, receiving his guests. His new scarlet breeches were gathered fashionably at the thighs, and his long-sleeved doublet was pierced with a hundred little slashes that let the moss-coloured satin lining peep out. Hose of the selfsame colour encased his long, spindly legs; he had disdained to pad his calves as his tailor suggested. His equally long and slender feet wore slashed shoes. The whole effect was like two green beans with shoes. But François was unaware of the effect, and stood proudly with his flat velvet cap and ornamental sword, welcoming his friends and little brothers, Charles and Henri. At nine and eight, they were the youngest present, and ran off to hide in the bushes and jump out at people.
“Welcome, my dear friends,” François said as loudly as possible, lifting up his arms. “My Queen and I delight in having you as our guests. Pray, help us enjoy the full moon when she rises.” He turned to Pierre de Ronsard, at thirty-five the oldest guest. “And you can recite your ‘Hymn to the Moon’—if you will be so kind.”
Ronsard bowed and kissed the King’s hand. “When she rises, I will salute her.” He turned to Mary. “But this glorious sun, this moon, shines on us already!”
Not now! she wanted to say. His extravagant praise could be embarrassing—all the more so since he clearly would have to praise her even if she looked like one of the donkeys that provided milk for the ladies’ baths.
Mary looked at the company she had gathered about her. Rushing across the marbled terrace was Mary Livingston, Lusty. She had grown big as well as tall, and would need a strapping husband, Mary thought. Not only strapping but lively and filled with energy. Who would there be for Lusty?
Not the poet Chastelard, Henri d’Amville’s secretary, who was languishing beside one of the potted fruit trees. His large, dark eyes, which looked always as if they were about to weep, were casting about for something to fasten on. He watched with some interest as Mary Seton came out, but his interest faded as she passed by. He could sense immediately that she was not the sort to swoon for love; she was the practical, down-to-earth type. His eye went elsewhere.
There was the handsome young Marquis d’Elboeuf, Mary’s Guise cousin, an obviously predatory sort. He had made for Flamina, as he always did. She would reject him, as she always did. He would laugh and try his luck elsewhere. Funny little René. Along with him was Henri d’Amville, the younger son of the Constable of France, Montmorency; Mary saw that he was wearing the rose silk
handkerchief of hers that he had found once and claimed to treasure above all things. He had pinned it to his doublet, and when he saw her watching, he deliberately kissed his fingers and touched them to the handkerchief.
The servitors passed silver goblets of white wine around to the company, and they all stood on the terrace facing east, waiting for the moon to rise in the clear sky. No one talked; they just waited quietly. A line of trees at the far end of the garden obscured the horizon, but they could make out a pale gleam as the moon emerged and began her nighttime journey across the sky.
“Ah!” said a quiet voice beside her, and Mary recognized it as Ronsard’s. As the moon cleared herself from the treetops, he began reciting his poem, composed for the occasion.
“The silver web that you throw, O Goddess,
lies shining over all the land,
veiling all things ugly, harsh, rough, loud—
O mistress of beauty, caress me, coat me with your white magic.…”
Together the party walked solemnly out along the garden paths to do homage to the white beauty blooming all around them.
Their voices were soft, low, and intimate, and the gentle breeze, scented with the night-blooming flowers, enveloped them in a delicate mantle of perfume.
Mary felt, at that moment, bathed in happiness and love, and surrounded by all the security that earth could offer.
“Vivez, si m’en croyez, n’attendez à demain; Cueillez dès aujourd’hui les roses de la vie,” Ronsard was murmuring behind her. “Nay, hear me, love! Wait not tomorrow! Live, and pluck life’s roses oh! today, today.”
XVII
Mary lay in bed, trying very hard not to move. If she lay perfectly still, the pain was not so severe. The doctors did not know what had caused this sudden sharp gnawing in her stomach; they prescribed rest and blancmanges to alleviate it. So she had taken to her bed this glorious June day, in her inmost bedroom in the royal apartments at Chambord, refusing to let the curtains be drawn or the windows shuttered. The sunlight danced in, and the summer air, as light as down and as pure as white lace, filled the room.
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 14