As soon as a kitchen staff was in place, I invited my uncle Charles to supper. He oversaw my finances, though I had the freedom to spend money as I wished—giving it to favored servants, to musicians and actors, to the three old men who cared for the royal bears, to anyone who particularly pleased me. I wanted to show Charles my gratitude. I felt very much a grown-up queen when I summoned Giorgio to plan the menu.
“We shall have frittered pears,” I said.
Giorgio acknowledged my order with a bow and asked, “Will there be anything else, Madame Marie?”
I had not thought beyond the pears. When I hesitated, Giorgio said smoothly, “May I suggest canard a l’orange—duck in an orange sauce. It will go nicely with the pears, madame.”
I agreed that it would. Besides, the duck would give me a chance to show off the silver forks I had ordered. I wanted my table to be just as elegant as Queen Catherine’s.
Uncle Charles was fond of excellent food and fine wine, and I was proud to be able to offer him both. The canard a l’orange impressed him. So did the peas and other vegetables Giorgio had persuaded me to serve, and we both enjoyed the frittered pears. We discussed the tutors who would be continuing my education, as well as many other matters, and when I knelt to receive my uncle’s blessing before he left, I felt that I was truly becoming a woman who could make up her own mind.
***
In 1553, Queen Catherine had given birth to another daughter, Marguerite, whom we all called Margot. Less than two years later another son, Hercule, was born. Then in June of 1556, the queen barely survived the difficult birth of twin girls, Victoire and Jeanne, who died almost as soon as they were born. The queen had borne ten children. Seven were still living. Princesse Élisabeth was the second oldest, after the dauphin, François.
England’s sixteen-year-old King Edward VI had died during the summer of 1553, putting an end to King Henri’s plans for Princesse Élisabeth to marry him when she came of age. King Henri began to consider other prospective bridegrooms. Though we were both very young, Élisabeth and I often discussed our eventual marriages. My future was entirely settled: I would marry her brother François when the king determined we were old enough. But at the age of eleven, Élisabeth did not yet know her future.
“Papa and Maman discuss it often, but I am not supposed to know about it,” Élisabeth confided to me. “I think they want me to marry a Spanish prince, Philip, provided he does not marry someone else first.” She sighed. “I doubt I shall meet him before the wedding. Not like you, Marie, growing up here with my brother and seeing him almost every day You have even learned to speak French, and beautifully too.”
I saw that her lip was trembling and her blue eyes were swimming with tears. We understood well that neither of us had any say in the choice of a husband. That decision was entirely up to our parents, who were most concerned about making alliances that would benefit our countries. “You will learn to speak Spanish just as easily,” I said, trying to reassure my dear friend. But Élisabeth had begun to weep.
“Philip is so old!” She sobbed. “He is twenty-eight—almost eighteen years older than I am—and he has already been married once. He has a son my age. His wife died.” She dabbed at her eyes. “What if I loathe him?”
“You will not loathe him,” I said as though I knew what I was talking about, but I was thinking, What if she does loathe him? “I shall come to visit you in Spain if you marry Philip,” I promised, wondering if I could really do that. “And I am sure your father will arrange for you to visit France. But nothing is decided yet, and there may be other prospective bridegrooms that you will find easier to like.”
“Do you think so?” she asked plaintively.
“Of course!” I seized her hand. “Now let us find Giorgio and ask him to make us something delicious.”
Chapter 15
Lessons in Ruling
THE LONGER I LIVED in France, the less I could remember about being a Scot. I spoke French as well as the dauphin and his sisters. I never spoke my native Scots, not even to Sinclair, who had come to understand French well enough, though she was often ridiculed for her strong Scots accent, her rolled r's and bitten-off final consonants. “It sounds as though you are choking,” she had been told.
My Four Maries, who were now officially my ladies in waiting, spoke nothing but French, even when we were alone.
Long ago I had abandoned wrapping myself in the traditional Scottish furs and leathers that I had once worn so proudly, partly because I had grown too tall for them, but mostly because I had come to love French fashion.
I had become a French girl, through and through.
But I was also learning to become a French queen, and for this role I was in training every day of my life. My uncle Charles, who traveled with the court and was constantly in the company of King Henri, easily persuaded the king that I must receive the best possible education. I had demonstrated that I could learn English and enough Spanish and Italian to carry on a polite conversation. I had mastered the grammar of Latin and could read, write, and speak it well.
Every day I was required to compose an essay on a different theme, all assigned by Monsieur Amyot and addressed to people I knew. I wrote an essay to everyone I could think of—not only to François and Élisabeth, but to the king and queen and my Guise uncles and aunts, my grandmother, and any cousins I thought deserved my words of wisdom. I labored over these assignments, but they were only for practice and were not sent.
It was the study of geography that captured my imagination. “Did you know,” I asked my four friends, “that France lies farther south than Scotland, and that is why it is warmer here?” I showed them a copy of a manuscript written hundreds of years earlier by Ptolemy, a Greek astronomer and geographer. “And did you know that Scotland receives more sunlight in summer than France does?”
“Hmmm,” they murmured, plainly not much interested.
My uncles had other priorities for my education. “You must have a thorough understanding of history,” said Charles, the cardinal. “The examples of history will demonstrate how to govern well and will aid you in your understanding of politics.”
“It is most important that you learn to present your ideas persuasively. To do that you must speak eloquently,” added François, the soldier. “The arts of speaking well and ruling well are like the strong hand in the well-fitting glove.”
I looked from one to the other, happy as always to be in the company of two uncles who loved me so well.
Charles wore a satisfied smile. “I must say, ma chère nièce, that you have quite enchanted our king. He has told me how much he enjoys chatting with you, sometimes for an hour at a time.”
I knew this was true. From my first months in the royal nursery, King Henri had always seemed to take pleasure in my company. Now that I was older and in my own establishment, he came by often to question me closely about my studies and to ask my opinion on certain texts I had been reading. He decided that the dauphin and I should take some of our lessons together, and Monsieur Danès was hired to instruct us in Greek. I enjoyed the lessons, but François was an intolerably lazy student.
“Monsieur Danès told me that his own teacher Budé was so brilliant he taught himself Greek perfectly in a little more than a month,” the dauphin grumbled. “But I dislike it, and no matter how Monsieur Danès tries to teach me, I cannot learn.” François showed me a manuscript written by Budé, bound in leather and stamped in gold. “He presented this to my grandfather King François. I cannot make a thing out of it.”
“It is beautiful,” I said, turning the pages carefully and reading bits of it aloud.
“Well, then, you keep it,” said the dauphin sourly and waved it away: “I just want to get rid of the thing.” Abruptly his mood brightened. “You are a much better student than I am, Marie,” he said. “I think the old king would have loved for you to have it.”
François was nearly twelve, his skin so pale I could make out the blue threads of veins beneath. He
was still small; I stood a full head taller. We often shared little jokes at the expense of our tutors, laughing at Amyot’s unruly eyebrows’ looking like twin nests and speculating what manner of bird might have assembled them. We had cruel things to say about the bedraggled feather in Monsieur Danès’s cap and the way the velvet had rubbed off the elbows of his coat. When the craving for sweets struck us, we found ways to coax one of the chefs to prepare them for us. My mother had sent me several ponies from the Shetland Isles of Scotland, as well as a litter of terrier pups, and I gave François first pick of both. He was my champion in all things, as I was his. He had become my dearest brother.
***
At the age of thirteen I was required to compose a discourse in Latin to declaim before the king and queen and the entire French court. Monsieur Amyot suggested that I speak about the responsibilities a ruler had to the church, but I had a different idea.
“I wish to speak on the importance of educating girls,” I said. Monsieur Amyot’s eyebrows twitched. “I have heard it said,” I continued before he could interrupt, “that some courtiers feel that girls do not need an education, that it is bad for us and interferes with our proper conduct as women. I want to contest those ideas and prove them wrong.”
The eyebrows quivered excitedly. “As you wish, Madame Marie,” he said. “Then let us get to work.”
It was much harder than I expected. I had all kinds of ideas and opinions, especially on the subject of the rights, or lack thereof, of Frenchwomen to inherit property and titles. I had been shocked to learn that a woman could not by law become the ruling queen of France.
“But suppose the dauphin and I marry and have only daughters? Could not the eldest princess inherit the throne?”
“Non, Madame Marie. According to ancient Salic law, she could not.”
“This is not true in Scotland,” I reminded my tutor. “I am the queen of Scotland, and I shall someday rule the Scots. An education is important for all women, not just queens.”
“A woman may inherit the throne in Scotland, and in England too,” Monsieur Amyot conceded. “But not in France.”
I retreated reluctantly from my most outspoken opinions, and finally, after several rewritings, I had a thesis that won Monsieur Amyot’s approval. My tutor in public speaking made sure I knew which words to emphasize. Orating in Latin, I practiced my delivery before my audience of three—two tutors and the dauphin, François, who felt obliged to try to distract me.
I was ready to appear before the most important members of the French court as well as my family. They gathered on a rainy afternoon in the Louvre, a beautiful palace built by the king to replace an old fortress. I was not nervous because I had practiced and I knew the material thoroughly I enjoyed being the center of attention, and I had a lovely new gown. But François was sweating and even paler than usual. The dauphin did the worrying for both of us.
“Please go sit beside Élisabeth,” I said firmly “You make me nervous as well. When I finish, we will find some bread and marmalade and have a feast.”
All went well, as I expected, and I received all manner of praise. I was told that my ideas were “well founded, well thought out, and spoken admirably” I would not have been satisfied with anything less. It did trouble me that it was unlikely I would ever have an opportunity to express my most serious ideas to the French people. My subjects in Scotland were far away, but I hoped the day would come when I could address them as their queen.
***
That summer Diane de Poitiers invited me to Château d’Anet. I was accompanied by three of my Four Maries—La Flamin refused to go. She hated the woman responsible for sending her mother back to Scotland.
“Madame de Poitiers spoke of my mother’s lack of dignity in flaunting her condition,” La Flamin complained. “As though the duchess herself has not shown a complete lack of dignity in her years as the king’s mistress.”
We left her sulking at Saint-Germain, and I easily persuaded Princesse Élisabeth to accompany us instead. Élisabeth was in a much better mood because she was no longer pledged to marry Philip II of Spain; he had married the newly crowned queen of England, Mary Tudor. Mary had become queen after the death of her half brother Edward VI.
“Queen Mary is ten years older than Philip!” Élisabeth exclaimed. “And he is already twenty-nine!” Then she added, “Maybe I shall never have to marry anyone, and I can live with you and François after you are married. Would that not be splendid, Marie?”
“It would indeed!” I agreed. I did not add that it was highly unlikely Élisabeth was much too valuable to France’s position in the world for her father to allow her to remain unmarried.
It was an easy journey down the Seine by bateau de rivière to Anet. Madame de Poitiers greeted our group and escorted us to the château. She was an excellent equestrienne and proposed that we all ride out to a little pavilion in her park. But the skies were becoming dark and threatening, and the other Maries and Élisabeth eagerly accepted her suggestion that they stay behind. Madame de Poitiers and I would take our chances.
We had ridden a distance from the château when a sudden downpour sent us hurrying to take shelter in a small pavilion in a willow copse. The pavilion was exquisitely furnished, everything in black and white. I wanted to ask the duchess if she owned clothes in other colors, dresses that perhaps she wore when she was alone. But before I could think of a way to pose my question politely, Madame de Poitiers began inquiring about my studies, which I described, though she surely knew the answers already. Then she asked about my friendship with the dauphin—“your intended,” she called François.
“The queen has me to thank for her large family,” she added confidentially. “It was simply that she and her husband needed a bit of instruction, which I was pleased to provide.”
I nodded, not sure how to respond. I knew—kitchen gossip, by way of Sinclair—that for years everyone had believed young Catherine de Médicis was barren. The birth of François proved them wrong.
Madame de Poitiers paused and arranged her black riding skirts. “Someday it will be up to you to produce the future kings and queens of France,” she continued. “But of course that is not solely your responsibility I have already introduced conversations with the dauphin concerning his responsibilities as well. When the time draws closer for your wedding, you and I will have conversations that will be of help to you.” She took my hand in hers and looked at me earnestly. “You are fortunate to have a friend like me who can speak with you honestly and plainly,” said the duchess.
“I once asked Madame de Parois a few questions,” I blurted out. “She was not forthcoming.”
“I suppose not,” she replied and quickly changed the subject. “Now look—the rain has stopped.” She rose and prepared to leave the pavilion. “Come, my dear Marie—it is almost time for the great clock to strike, and I know how much you enjoy that!”
Chapter 16
Preparation for Marriage
DURING MY THIRTEENTH YEAR, and then my fourteenth, my studies occupied most of my hours. Still, I found time for music. I practiced the lute and the harp, the clavichord and the virginals. My music teacher assured me that my singing voice was quite pleasant, though it is possible that some of the praise was mere flattery I loved to dance and nearly always took part in the ballet, a form of dance that Queen Catherine had enjoyed watching in her childhood in Italy and introduced to the French court. But above all else I adored poetry.
I fairly worshiped Pierre de Ronsard, known in France as the prince of poets. A gaunt-faced man with close-cropped hair and a trim little beard, Monsieur Ronsard had traveled to Scotland with the court of my father’s first wife, Madeleine of France. After Madeleine died, Monsieur Ronsard left Scotland and roamed the world before returning to settle in France. His was not like the classical poetry I was assigned to study; it was written in the simple, natural words of the people. I had read the work of the Italian poet Dante. Ronsard’s poetry was like that: elegant, pure, the langua
ge of the heart.
I read his poetry and listened to it read and sung, and I began to write poetry myself. For several carefree years I danced and sang, made music and wrote poems, rode horses and followed the hunt and enjoyed the company of my dogs and my family and my friends. My education was nearly complete. It was a wonderful life, and it never occurred to me that it would not go on forever.
In December of 1557, my fifteenth birthday was observed with feasting and music. There was an even greater celebration when the dauphin, François, turned fourteen a month later, just days after my uncle François thrilled the whole nation by wresting the port city of Calais away from the English, who had ruled it for more than two hundred years.
My uncle was now a national hero, praised as a military genius and lauded throughout France for his valor. No one had believed the French would ever see the last vestiges of the English removed from their country. Now the nation was giddy with joy, and in the midst of this buoyant mood King Henri decided that the time was right for the betrothal and the wedding of the dauphin, François de Valois, to Marie Stuart, queen of Scots. Diane de Poitiers brought me the news.
“Most of the forty days of Lent will be spent in preparations for the event,” said the duchess. “I shall oversee the planning and the details. You may be assured that everything will be of the utmost elegance and to your complete liking.”
My Four Maries were in ecstasies over the coming events. Princesse Élisabeth was delighted. But most excited of all was the dauphin, François.
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