The Wild Queen

by Carolyn Meyer

  Minutes later, in the great hall, the dauphin and his two sisters and I crowded around the king, the two girls on his lap and François at his feet, all of them chattering at once. Claude reached up to stroke her father’s silky beard. I stood near his shoulder, speaking only when he spoke to me. Queen Catherine looked on fondly, but I noticed that the king had offered the queen only the most casual greeting. Later, when his children had climbed down from his knees, he made a courtly bow to Lady Fleming, who blushed rosily, and then left the hall in the company of Diane de Poitiers. We did not see the king or the duchess again until dinner the next day

  ***

  Not long after the king returned from his journey, my uncle François, my mother’s brother, married Anne d’Este, the daughter of an Italian duke and the granddaughter of Louis XII, an earlier king of France. I had attended weddings before, but Lady Fleming assured me this one would be different from any other.

  “It will be the grandest affair you have ever seen!” she said. “I hear that King Henri has spared no expense for this wedding. Diplomats from all over the Continent will be among the guests. And you will have an important part in it, Marie.”

  “Dancing with the dauphin?” I asked, dreading the answer.

  “Aye, Marie. Remember, the whole world will be watching.”

  I had not forgotten.

  Since my birthday celebration, Madame de Poitiers had insisted that the dauphin and I practice every morning and again in the afternoon. My grandmother had ordered me a new gown with embroidered sleeves and rows of glittering gems stitched to the hem. I was given several more gowns to wear at other events before and after the wedding. I loved the gowns and tried to put the dancing test out of my mind.

  I took an immediate liking to my uncle’s seventeen-year-old bride, but my grandmother was somewhat critical of her. “I would have hoped for someone more beautiful. Have you noticed her chin?” said Grand-Mère. “She does look healthy enough, and her dowry is quite large. She will no doubt provide us with the necessary sons.” My grandmother added, sighing, “Perhaps in time she will become more graceful.”

  Everywhere I went during the three-day celebration, King Henri made it a point to present me as “my daughter the queen of Scotland.” I overheard him telling everyone that from the day the little dauphin and I had met “the two got on together as though they had known each other all their lives.”

  It was true. The dauphin, though a year and a month younger than I, had attached himself to me like a limpet. He seemed to prefer my companionship to anyone else’s, running after me and calling, “W-w-wait for m-m-me, M-M-Marie!” When I let him catch up, his pleased smile was my reward.

  We were not yet formally betrothed. The wedding—which I knew would surely be even grander than my uncle’s to Anne d’Este—was still far off. But as the future queen of France, I was well aware of the attention I attracted wherever I went. And now, at the dazzling wedding feast, by the light of hundreds of candles, the moment had come for me and my future husband to dance together before not just our family but—as Lady Fleming reminded me —the whole world.

  The musicians played an introduction as the dauphin and I took our places on the polished stone floor; the wedding guests—with the smiling bride and groom seated above them—stood aside to give us plenty of room. My shoes felt too tight. Had my feet grown since they were made for me? And my gown was weighed down by the embroidery and lace and jewels. Poor François looked more than frightened—he looked terrified.

  “It worked perfectly when we practiced yesterday in front of Lady Fleming,” I whispered. “It will work perfectly now.”

  “All r-r-right,” he stammered.

  “Remember to smile, François, no matter what happens!”

  I suspect we looked rather odd, for I was half a head taller than the dauphin. But the difference in our sizes did not matter, and it did not matter that our steps were not perfect, because the wedding guests were delighted simply to see us together in a make-believe courtship. When the dance ended, we were expected to kiss tenderly, but because I was so much taller, I had to bend my knees so that the little dauphin was not forced to stretch up on his tiptoes to reach my lips.

  It must have gone off well enough, for my future father-in-law, the king, was beaming, Queen Catherine was nodding indulgently, and Madame de Poitiers was smiling triumphantly while the assembled crowd applauded and murmured their approval.

  ***

  The French court celebrated Christmas Eve with a special Mass in the royal chapel, followed by a great banquet the next day. On January 6, the Feast of the Epiphany, gifts were exchanged. With Lady Fleming’s help I had painstakingly stitched small bookmarks in silk thread on velvet for all the members of the royal family, as well as for Diane de Poitiers.

  Later in January we observed the dauphin’s fifth birthday It was a happy occasion, with plenty of sweets to eat and jugglers to enjoy, and no one forced François to dance.

  I loved dancing as much as François disliked it, but we did have some common interests and occasionally set off together in what we called “little adventures.” A favorite exploit involved stealing into the larder when we thought we were unobserved and helping ourselves to cream-filled puffs of pastry or the fruit tarts glazed with jam that were the dauphin’s particular favorites. On the day before a feast or royal banquet, the pastry kitchen was crowded and noisy and we knew that it was best not to go there. But on the day after the feast we were guaranteed a delightful supply of leftover confections, and we could eat all we wanted. We were united by our fondness for sweets as well as a taste for petty thievery.

  ***

  On the second of February, the French court celebrated the Feast of the Purification of the Virgin and the Presentation of the Infant Jesus. During the banquet that followed Mass in the royal chapel, the queen quietly withdrew. The next day she gave birth to her fourth child, a boy The king was delighted to have a second son and named him Louis. Almost as soon as he was born, Madame de Poitiers whisked the wee bairn away to the royal nursery, to be cared for under her watchful eye.

  By the king’s order, I shared my studies with Princesse Élisabeth, as well as a few children of the nobility. François, as dauphin, had to be tutored alone—a shame, I thought, for he was an intelligent lad and would have been a fine addition to my classes.

  Each week Lady Fleming helped me write a letter to my mother. After six months in France I spoke French almost as easily as I did Scots and wrote it well enough too. I dutifully described to my mother the interesting things I had learned and the people I had met. When the mail arrived from Scotland, I almost always received a letter from my mother. I looked forward to those letters and wept if there was none, but they also reminded me painfully that I had not seen her for months. I had settled into my new life, as I knew she wished me to, but my longing for her never left me. Though I was always the center of attention at royal events and was surrounded by people who seemed to care about me, I missed Maman deeply.

  I also missed the Four Maries, who were still being kept at the convent in Poissy. “When will I see them again?” I asked Lady Fleming repeatedly.

  “Soon, Marie, soon.” She always sighed.

  Lately my governess had seemed distracted. I thought her distraction and her deep sighs were because she yearned for her daughter, La Flamin, at least as much as I did.

  But as it turned out, I was wrong.

  Chapter 7

  Fontainebleau

  THE ENTIRE FRENCH COURT was moving to Fontainebleau. For a week, servants swarmed through the apartments packing furniture, plates, and cups into crates, and clothing and linens into trunks. They had done it many times before.

  “King Henri likes to move,” grumbled the woman charged with seeing to my belongings. “Once there, it is fine enough, but getting there is no pleasure.” She stood with her hands braced on her wide hips. “The journey itself cannot end too soon for these old bones. You will see that for yourself, Madame Marie.”
She went back to her duties, muttering under her breath.

  Soon after sunrise on the Monday of Holy Week, a long procession of people and mule carts wound its way out of Saint-Germain. At the head of the procession rode the messengers, who would be the first to arrive at the village where we would stop well before dark. Next came the cooks, the bakers and pastry makers, and the boys who turned the roasting spits, followed by dozens of stewards in charge of setting up the banquet tables and serving the meal. The noblemen, their wives and children, and their household servants made up the rest of the procession that stretched farther than I could see.

  In this great river of people, Élisabeth and I rode together in a litter cushioned with velvet pillows. I now understood the old servant’s complaints. The pillows were not nearly thick enough to protect us from the jostling of the mules carrying the litter. By the time we stopped for the first night, the excitement had worn off and we were tired.

  Sinclair was traveling with the servants and did not try to hide her feelings about them when we retired to rooms prepared for us at the convent where we were to spend the night. “Those Frenchwomen look down their fine noses at me,” she complained, her eyes red rimmed—from weariness or weeping, I was not sure. “They call me 'the auld Scot’ and mock me when I speak our natural tongue. They jeer at me for not saying their French words the way they should be said, by their lights, and they point and laugh at me for the clumsy way I use a fork, the likes of which I had never seen before I set foot on this godforsaken land!”

  But her misery reached a peak on the second night of the journey when she was forced to share a flea-infested bed with one of the wardrobe mistresses.

  Unlike Sinclair, Lady Fleming seemed serenely content, going about with a pleased little half smile. The Four Maries had been released at last from the convent outside Paris where they had studied French and been instructed in the customs of the French court. Lady Fleming would soon be reunited with her daughter. That, I thought, must be the source of her pleasure.

  Early in the evening of the third day we stopped in a small village just outside the royal forest. The weather had turned damp and cold, and tents were set up for the evening meal. Later, while musicians played for the king and his court, the servants hurried on ahead to begin unpacking, which would take them most of the night. At midmorning the next day—Holy Thursday—the procession arrived at Porte d’Orée, the south gate leading to the château of Fontainebleau.

  I shall never forget my first view of the château—the enormous size of it and the awesome beauty. “Oh, I do wish my mither could see this!” I exclaimed, lapsing into the Scots tongue as I still sometimes did when I was thinking of her. I could no longer remember much about the castles and royal palaces of Scotland except for Dumbarton, my last home before leaving my country for my new life. I did realize that compared to this glorious château, Scottish palaces were quite small and, it must be said, rather dreary.

  Lady Fleming nodded agreeably “The queen mother would like this place well enough, I am sure,” my governess acknowledged. “But I fancy she saw it many times before she left France to marry King James. She grew up not far from here. When she first came to Scotland, she often talked of her home at Joinville. You are likely to see it too before many days have passed.”

  I watched her drift away, still in her dreamy state. I had known Lady Fleming all my life, for she was one of my mother’s closest friends. Everyone admired her shapely figure, her thick blond hair, and her eyes the color of Scottish bluebells. She was indeed beautiful, I thought, but not as beautiful as my mither.

  ***

  Easter fell late in 1549—the twenty-first of April—and from then on the days were nearly always warm and pleasant. At Fontainebleau I again shared a large apartment with my good sister-friend Princesse Élisabeth. It seemed that one could easily become lost in this vast château, but Élisabeth knew it well and delighted in being my guide. Soon the two of us were roaming through the many corridors and grand halls, venturing out into the gardens, and stopping by a pool teeming with carp that clambered greedily over one another for the bread we tossed them. The dauphin had been unwell since his birthday in January, but now he was feeling stronger and sometimes came out to join us.

  The Four Maries had arrived in time for the Easter celebration. Peals of laughter rang out as my friends rushed to embrace me. We were happy to see one another after our long separation, and without thinking we were soon prattling happily in Scots. I saw Élisabeth staring at us. “I cannot understand you when you talk like that, Marie,” she complained, pouting a little.

  I knew I had made a mistake. The Four Maries had barely appeared, and already we had broken an important rule. “I will not forget again,” I told her, apologizing, and changed quickly to French. But it was too late. The next day Madame de Poitiers sent for me.

  “Madame Marie,” she began. “You are to speak only French. You do understand that, do you not?”

  “Oui, Madame de Poitiers,” I said.

  “Then you must promise me you will not speak your former language with the Four Maries.”

  My former language? Was it not still my language? “Je vous promets," I said. I stared at my shoes, knowing it would be a hard promise to keep now that my friends were with me again.

  ***

  We now spoke French among ourselves with ease. None of my four friends called herself Mary anymore; we were all Maries.

  When I lived in Scotland with my mother, I had spent my days with the Four Maries for my companions. No one cared how we passed our time, and we ran about freely wherever we wished. But life at the French court was different. I was constantly surrounded by swarms of people. I was either at court with the king and queen and their children, the dauphin in particular, or visiting, or being visited by, my mother’s family, and I loved them all. I often saw my grandparents, as well as uncles and aunts. My uncle François, recently married to Anne d’Este, was a soldier. A long scar on his cheek gotten when he fought bravely in battle against the English had earned him the name Le Balafré— “the Scarred One.” Despite the scar, or maybe because of it, I thought him very dashing and handsome. His brother Charles was a churchman, cardinal of Lorraine. He was handsome too, but not as dashing.

  Twice each month I journeyed to Joinville to visit my grandparents at their château, a huge medieval fort on the River Marne only a day’s ride from Fontainebleau. My brother François, duke of Longueville, was usually at Joinville when I arrived on Saturday evening. I was happy to see him, and he always had some little surprise for me. He loved to draw, and the gift was often a sketch of a bird or a flower that had caught his eye. “It reminded me of you and of our mother,” he explained each time, “and so I had to draw it.”

  On Sunday after we had all heard Mass together in the chapel at the old château, we walked a short distance to the Château du Grand Jardin, a banqueting house surrounded by beautiful gardens that my grandfather had built as a place to entertain his guests. The Guise family gathered here for a fine meal, followed by dancing. My brother François and Grand-Père were my favorite partners. “You dance exquisitely, ma petite Marie!” my grandfather said, and his praise always delighted me. Sometimes Grand-Mère invited mimes to entertain us or itinerant troupes of actors to perform.

  But most important was the lively conversation among my Guise aunts and uncles and grandparents. My uncles asked me a great many questions about life with the royal family and seized eagerly upon whatever court gossip I could report. I always did my best to please them, but Grand-Père usually brought the questioning to an end.

  “Enough, gentlemen! Our lovely little queen is tired of such talk. Marie, I propose a visit to Grand-Mère’s apartments for a chat with her pretty birds—would that please you, ma chère?”

  Of course it would, and off we went together, my small hand in his large one.

  ***

  I was a keen observer and a curious child, though I was still too young to understand the meaning of
most of what I saw and heard at court. I also knew instinctively that I must not ask direct questions about what interested me but must wait to be told. I still had many unanswered questions—about Madame de Poitiers, for instance. I noticed that she always dressed in black and white and that King Henri was very close to her and spent nearly every afternoon with her. She had a daughter who was about the same age as the king and queen. “The duchess’s daughter is in charge of the palace servants,” I heard Lady Fleming say, “and the duchess is in charge of the king.”

  What does that mean? I wondered but did not ask. How could a duchess be in charge of a king? That would surely make her very powerful! When I repeated Lady Fleming’s remark to my uncles François and Charles, they laughed heartily Grand-Mère changed the subject quickly, asking about the Four Maries. I knew by her tone and her expression that she still did not approve of them, but she no longer referred to them as les petites sauvages, at least not within my hearing. But I received no explanation of what I had heard.

  After three or four days with my Guise relatives, I returned to Fontainebleau. When summer came and the king ordered the court to move back to Saint-Germain, I continued to make the trip to Joinville, but now I traveled by riverboat. It had been a year since the king’s royal galley arrived in Dumbarton and my friends and I had embarked on the journey to France. But the anniversary of my departure from Scotland passed without notice. I was by now thoroughly and completely at home in France.

  Chapter 8

  Death in the Family

  KING HENRI WAS the most important man in all of France—I never doubted that. But I was unsure who was the most important woman: Queen Catherine or Diane de Poitiers? I understood why the king spent so much time with Madame de Poitiers, who was lively and amusing, and so little time with his wife, who seemed dull and unfriendly compared to the duchess. The queen had the superior title, yet I had heard members of her own court refer to her behind her back as “the merchant’s daughter.” What did they mean?