The Wild Queen

by Carolyn Meyer

  The minutes ticked by until the gold clock on my dressing table chimed nine times. At this hour musicians would be entertaining the crowds gathering outside the cathedral. In another hour the bridal procession would begin. I wondered what François was thinking. Was he nervous? Ill, perhaps? But I did not have long to worry about this, for my uncle’s steward arrived to escort me to the hall where the royal family, the princes of the blood—relatives of the king—and the highest members of the nobility were assembled for the procession from the archbishop’s palace to the cathedral.

  “Un moment, s’il vous plaît ” I said, and the steward withdrew.

  I removed the dressing gown and took a long moment to study my reflection in the polished silver of the mirror. What I saw pleased me. I had been praised for my beauty since my childhood. It was gratifying to have courtiers and ladies in waiting and servants tell me that I was beautiful, but one was always a bit doubtful of their sincerity Like my mother’s side of the family, the Guises, I was tall and slender with a neat waist and delicate breasts. I was blessed with my father’s coloring—rich auburn hair, eyes the color of amber, a flawless complexion as pale as porcelain—which set off my even features. My ears were larger than I would have liked, but overall the effect was good. On my wedding day, in my wedding finery, I did indeed believe that I was beautiful.

  Oui, I thought. Je suis prête. I am ready.

  The spring sun bathed the city in a golden light. The sound of music and the cheers of the crowd made a merry cacophony. A clock in a nearby church tower struck the hour, and immediately throughout all of Paris a tumult of bells began to ring. The great procession moved slowly toward the cathedral, a hundred gentlemen of the household followed by a swarm of noblemen. Somewhere in the crowd I spotted my bridegroom, François, a slight figure in a luminous suit of cloth of gold.

  I was ready to experience every delight, savor every moment of this marvelous day In spite of the weight of my magnificent gown, I felt as if I were floating. The crown of gold set with dozens of gems rested heavily on my head, but I knew I had made the right choice in wearing my hair loose. King Henri smiled broadly as he offered me his left hand, and I placed my right hand lightly upon it. As I had practiced with one of the king’s footmen, we walked at a slow, steady pace through the wide archway leading from the archbishop’s palace to the doors of the cathedral, giving the crowds time to get their fill of gawking. My uncle François had made sure that the noblemen and their wives did not block the common people’s view. The roar of the jubilant crowd was deafening, and I had no doubt that the cheers were mostly for me.

  At a signal from my uncle, the pages in their brilliant silks began tossing fistfuls of gold and silver coins to the crowd, shouting, “Largesse! Largesse!” In the wild scramble, people were caught in the crush, their hats lost and their clothes torn. (Unfortunately, some were injured. The results of the distribution of largesse were nearly always the same: the people expected it, royalty tried to meet the demand, and greed overcame civility and created mayhem. I did not witness this but heard of it afterward.)

  The archbishop of Paris waited on a specially designed stage in front of the cathedral. My soon-to-be husband arrived with his brothers Charles and Edouard. François looked sickly, and I wondered if the fêtes leading up to the wedding had made him ill. Perhaps he is just uneasy, I thought. For my part, I was not in the least nervous, and I gave him my most reassuring smile.

  The bishop greeted King Henri and the rest of the bridal party and made a speech. I heard scarcely a word of it. The king removed a ring from his finger and placed it on a satin pillow held by a page. The archbishop of Rouen blessed the ring, and François, trembling so much that he nearly dropped it, slipped it on my finger. The same archbishop led us through our vows, pronounced us man and wife, and blessed us.

  We were married. It was that simple.

  Chapter 18

  Celebration

  THE PAGEANTRY of a royal wedding had only just begun. My husband and I entered the cathedral to hear Mass and, kneeling side by side on golden cushions, receive the bread and wine of the sacrament. After the archbishop pronounced the benediction, we stepped out once more into the bright spring sunshine. I took François’s hand—it was cold and damp—and that simple gesture elicited great cries of joy from the delirious crowd.

  My uncle François seemed to be everywhere at once. “Take your time,” he told us. “The crowd wants to see you, and they are entitled to that. This is a great occasion for the people of France.”

  We promenaded this way and that on the huge outdoor stage, each of us smiling and waving first one arm and then the other, acknowledging the cheers. But one familiar figure in that sea of joyous celebrants caught my attention: a tall, auburn-haired young man with his arms folded across his chest glaring at me, unsmiling.

  “There is my brother James Stuart,” I remarked to the dauphin. “I wonder why he looks so sour.”

  I leaned toward my father’s oldest son and blew him a kiss. But his scowl merely deepened. I had seen little of James since he had accompanied me to France, nearly ten years earlier. He had spent time pursuing his studies but seldom came to court. I thought he had returned to Scotland. But here he was, making sure that I saw him and witnessed his displeasure.

  My uncle signaled that we had done our official duty and should now make our way, at the same slow and stately pace, back to the archbishop’s palace for the first of two banquets. This banquet was for the royal family, including relatives and the princes of the blood, and the highest nobility. Trumpets and sackbuts played fanfares. Servants carrying golden platters presented a parade of Queen Catherine’s favorites, as well as some of mine: frittered pears and frangipane, a custard tart made with ground almonds.

  Halfway through the feast, my neck began to ache from the weight of the gold crown. I signaled to a page standing rigidly behind my chair. “Tell the king that my crown is causing me great discomfort. Ask him what I should do.”

  The page made his way down the table to King Henri’s page and repeated my message. In a moment he returned. “Madame, one of the king’s gentlemen has been appointed to hold your crown above your head for as long as shall be required.”

  The Chevalier de Saint-Crispin appeared at my elbow. “With your permission, madame,” he said and gently lifted the crown from my head and held it up. What a relief! I finished my meal with the crown hovering just inches above my brow.

  Then the dancing began.

  Who would dance with whom, in what order, and in what style had all been arranged in advance. According to custom, I danced first with King Henri; my new husband’s partner was his mother. Though the dauphin, at the insistence of Diane de Poitiers, had made an effort to learn the court dances, he plainly did not enjoy it any more than he had the first time we danced together, and went through the motions as though he were carved from wood. I, on the other hand, was in my glory. The king, who was as tall as I, made an excellent partner. My steps were graceful and sure. My shimmering white gown sparkled with jewels. My train had been removed, revealing interlacing bands of cloth of gold. My auburn hair rippled on my shoulders. I knew that every eye was upon me, and I reveled in it.

  The dauphin-king (as a result of our marriage, François now held the title of king of Scotland) and I were now expected to dance together. We must have made a strange couple, as I towered over him. It surely looked as though I were dancing with a much younger brother. Nevertheless, I whispered encouragement, François smiled up at me gratefully, and we did well enough to be rewarded by the applause of our friends and family

  ***

  Late in the afternoon the whole court left the archbishop’s palace and moved to the palace of the Parlement of Paris. The ladies rode in litters draped with cloth of gold—I shared a litter with the queen—and the dauphin and his gentlemen followed on horseback, their mounts trapped to the ground in red velvet. It was my uncle’s idea to take a long, circuitous route through Paris, twice crossing the
bridges over the Seine, giving the people every opportunity to see the royal family, the nobility, and most of all their dauphin and his dauphine in our gorgeous finery. Queen Catherine sat back, saying little, letting me receive the adulation of the crowd. At the time I gave scarcely a thought to my new mother-in-law and what she was thinking. Perhaps she was used to staying in the background. Even on her son’s wedding day, she was again overshadowed by the elegant, confident black and white presence of Madame de Poitiers.

  I did not mention to Queen Catherine that twice more in the course of the procession I caught sight of my half brother James Stuart, his glowering mien unchanged. He had been invited to the festivities but had declined. Why then, was he making such a point of showing me his displeasure? The first time I saw him, I had greeted him warmly. The second time I acknowledged him with a wave. The third time, feeling deeply annoyed, I pretended not to see him.

  ***

  The second banquet, followed by another ball, would be attended by visiting ambassadors representing our neighboring countries, as well as many local dignitaries. At the queen’s insistence—“You will thank me for it later, my dear”—I withdrew for an hour, slept deeply, changed out of my white gown into an emerald-green silk, and returned to greet my guests, completely refreshed.

  There was more dancing and more entertainment. The poet Pierre Ronsard read several excellent verses composed to celebrate the occasion, but the main event of the evening involved the mechanical devices that the king so much enjoyed. Six pairs of make-believe horses constructed of cloth and wood circled the hall, each pair drawing a coach carrying a group of musicians. A half dozen ships with silvery sails filled with wind from hidden bellows crossed an artificial sea of painted canvas. Somehow the sea was made to heave up and down like waves as the ships sailed around the hall, each with a “captain” aboard. King Henri commanded the first ship and ordered his vessel to stop in front of me. Four sturdy “sailors” then lifted me aboard to the seat of state. No one could have failed to be impressed by this display—and that, I understood, was the purpose of all the revels that took place that night, would go on throughout the next day at the Palais du Louvre, and would continue after that for three more days of tournaments and jousting.

  Just before midnight Diane de Poitiers appeared at my elbow.

  “Are you ready, Marie? The king expects you and your husband to withdraw now, before midnight strikes. You will be escorted separately to your bridal chamber and undressed. The archbishop will bless the marital bed, and everyone will leave—all but the king, who may or may not remain to witness the consummation. Do you remember the instructions I have given you?”

  I nodded. I had managed for this one day to push out of my mind every thought of what was about to happen. But I could no longer avoid it. My throat was dry, raw from a day of talking and laughing. I was also suddenly nervous.

  “The dauphin has been given corresponding instructions. You will sleep on the right side of the bed. Beneath the pillow is the vial of blood I promised you. Remember to use it.”

  “Oui, je comprends,” I said.

  There was no time to worry. Several of my older ladies in waiting were advancing toward me, and I knew that what was to follow was my first official duty as the future queen of France. If only I could now withdraw with my Four Maries, who had been hovering near me all day, always just at the edge of the celebrations. How nice it would be if the five of us could go off together and sip cups of the warm and soothing posset of eggs and milk that Sinclair used to make for me and gossip about the events of the day

  That would not happen. I caught the eye of La Flamin, who smiled and made the good-luck signal we had once worked out—left hand briefly touching right eyebrow. I returned the signal and left the ball in the company of my senior ladies.

  In the crowded dressing room the ladies competently removed my jewels, my green silk gown, my slippers, and my underthings, and then replaced them with a delicately embroidered shift trimmed with the finest lace. They led me from the dressing room to the bridal chamber, in the center of which stood a massive bed piled high with feather mattresses and draped in rich silk brocade. An animated crowd was gathering in the chamber, the king among them, as well as both of my Guise uncles. Are they going to stay too? I wondered.

  I climbed the three steps and lay down between smooth white sheets. My husband climbed into the bed from the opposite side. I slid my hand beneath a mound of pillows, felt for the promised glass vial, and found it. I tried to smile encouragingly at François. He looked utterly miserable—exhausted and ill and doubtless more frightened than I.

  The archbishop quieted the crowd, stepped to the foot of the bed, and blessed us. Pages drew the curtains around the bed. We heard people leaving, laughing boisterously and talking loudly—they had been drinking most of the day and all of the night. The chamber fell silent. Not a sound. I listened carefully, but I did not hear the great door close.

  “Is your father, the king, still here?” I whispered.

  “I do not know,” the dauphin replied.

  “Then we had better do as the duchess instructed,” I said. “He may be there listening.”

  We began our little performance. François bounced up and down on the bed beside me, making grunting noises and pausing long enough to whisper in my ear, “Remember to cry out joyfully, Marie.”

  I did so, feeling ridiculous. François joined in. The effort amused us both so much that it was all we could do to keep from laughing out loud. I found the glass vial, uncorked it, and poured a few drops of sheep’s blood on the snow-white sheets. In the morning the sheets would be inspected for proof that the bride had come to the bed a virgin and that the marriage had been consummated.

  We thought we heard the great door creak quietly and the latch click in place.

  “Now we can sleep,” said my husband. “I am very tired. Are you?”

  I answered that I was. François curled up close to me, like a child, and flung his arm affectionately around my neck. “I love you, ma plus chère Marie,” he said, sighing.

  “And I love you, mon cher François,” I replied, and I stroked his thin hair until he fell asleep.

  Far away in Scotland there were no doubt fireworks, bonfires, processions, dancing in the streets in honor of the wedding of Mary, queen of Scots. The great cannon at Edinburgh Castle would even be fired. I lay awake for a while longer, thinking of my mother, how she would have loved this day, how proud she would have been.

  When at last I slept, I believed the world was nearly perfect and that my place in it was secure.

  Chapter 19

  Year of Changes

  SERVANTS AWAKENED US early the next morning. King Henri expected us to be present at the first of a series of tournaments at his favorite Parisian palace, Hotel des Tournelles. I was drowsy and would have liked to linger there for a while longer, but my new husband fairly leaped from the bed where we had spent our first night together.

  “I am to joust with the other men,” he announced. “And I shall carry your colors, my dearest Marie.” His menservants rushed to help him dress, while my ladies and I gathered ourselves at a more leisurely pace.

  This was the first of three days of jousting, during which I received an unexpected and not entirely welcome visit from my brother James, whose dark presence had been the only blemish on my wedding day I had seen almost nothing of him since he had traveled with me ten years earlier on the king’s galley from Scotland to France. I was a five-year-old child on that long voyage, and he was sixteen, a young man on his way to Paris to study. He had been destined then for a career in the church, and during this visit he informed me that he had been named prior of St. Andrews in Scotland.

  “To be truthful, sister, I have little calling as a churchman. This was our father’s plan for me, but I have not done well.” It appeared that he did not intend to explain his peculiar behavior among the adoring crowds on my wedding day, and I chose not to mention it.

  “What is
it you wish to do, James?” I asked.

  “Why, to live the life of a gentleman,” he replied, as though that should have been obvious. “And to do my duty as a proud Scot. Therefore, I am asking you, as queen of the country in which you no longer live, to grant me the earldom of Moray.”

  Unsure how to respond, I decided to put him off until I could ask my mother’s advice. “I will consider your request, dear brother,” I said. “You will receive my answer once you have returned to Scotland.”

  As soon as he had been escorted out the door, I wrote to my mother and sent off my coded letter by special courier. Her advice was to refuse him, since granting the earldom would cause trouble with other lords in the north of Scotland, particularly George Gordon, Lord Huntly, and so I did refuse, hoping to hear no more from him. It was obvious from his manner that my brother could barely tolerate me. I had done nothing to offend him, but I could guess at the cause: jealousy. No doubt he wished to be more than an earl; he thought he deserved to be the next king of Scotland.

  The wedding festivities were still in progress but were now marred by a grievous accident. One of François’s good friends was severely wounded and lost an eye in a joust. Even this unfortunate event did not diminish the pleasure enjoyed by the court, though neither François nor I could brush it off so easily. I prayed that it was not an ill omen.

  ***

  After the wedding, the court returned to Fontainebleau, moved to Saint-Germain for the summer, stopped in Compiègne for autumn hunting, and moved on to Blois in the Loire Valley as the weather turned cool. The dauphin and I now had adjoining apartments, and he often came to talk late in the evening and stayed to sleep in my bed. I played the lute and sang for my husband, but we did not dance together unless some court event required it. I discovered that he was a keen chess player. We had chessboards set up in several different halls, and we sometimes paused on our way from one hall to another to ponder the next move.