The Wild Queen

by Carolyn Meyer

  François liked to think over his moves. I made mine quickly “Recklessly,” he said. “You must not make your decisions so hastily.”

  “But I usually win,” I reminded him.

  In the complicated world of royalty, there were always a number of moves in play on the chessboard that was Europe. Developments in one country always affected the situation in another. Seven months after my marriage to François, we learned of the death of Queen Mary of England. She died childless, and on November 17, 1558, Mary’s half sister, Elizabeth Tudor, became queen. I sat down to write my congratulations to Elizabeth on the occasion of her accession to the throne of England, addressing her as “my dear sister,” the custom among royalty, though we were not truly sisters but first cousins once removed. Elizabeth’s father, the hated Henry VIII, was the brother of my father’s mother.

  I was quite unprepared for what the crowning of Elizabeth would mean to me.

  “You have a legitimate claim to the throne of England!” my uncles pointed out to me, barely able to conceal their delight.

  “Elizabeth is illegitimate,” Uncle Charles added, unable to stop himself from gloating. “Henry’s marriage to her mother—his second wife, Anne Boleyn—was not recognized by the pope. Henry himself dissolved his marriage to his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, mother of the late Queen Mary. What’s more, Elizabeth is Protestant and will surely lead the country away from the true church. Ma chère Marie, you are quite clearly the legitimate ruler of England!”

  I knew that Henry had not been allowed to divorce his first wife to marry the second, but until now I had not realized what this could mean to me. The idea was thrilling: I could very possibly be queen of not only Scotland but England and Ireland as well, and, in due time, France. So sure were my uncles and my father-in-law of my right to the English throne that King Henri ordered my coat of arms changed to include the English crown. The heraldic arms of England were now to be quartered with the arms of Scotland and France.

  “A direct challenge to the English queen,” my uncles announced triumphantly.

  They ordered the coat of arms of England to be boldly displayed with the arms of France and Scotland on every plate, every chest, every piece of furniture that belonged to my husband. This new coat of arms was also stitched on the livery worn by my servants. When I was on my way to Mass or anywhere else, the ushers who walked ahead of me were instructed to cry, “Make way for the queen of England!”

  Then my uncle the cardinal journeyed to Rome to meet with Pope Paul IV and to present the case that I, Marie Stuart, was the true and rightful heir to the throne of England.

  He returned with a report that disappointed us all. The pope had refused to declare Elizabeth Tudor illegitimate, putting an end to the dream that I would become queen of England, Ireland, and Scotland. The pope was afraid to go against the wishes of powerful King Philip II of Spain, who wished to stay on good terms with Elizabeth. It was rumored that he had proposed marriage to her when her half sister, Mary, his wife, was scarcely in her tomb. Elizabeth had refused him. It was only after her refusal that Philip had proposed to marry our own dear Princesse Élisabeth.

  Then King Henri too began to believe that it was a mistake to challenge Elizabeth of England. He even seemed to lose some of his great affection for my heroic uncle François, who had won Calais back from the English. When Le Balafré asked to be made grand master of the king’s household as a reward for his brave leadership, the king refused! My uncle’s pride was hurt. Then the French signed a treaty with England, heaping praise on Queen Elizabeth. I had to make a speech saying how much the treaty pleased me.

  That was a lie. It did not please me, but no one cared in the least what I thought.

  Meanwhile, word got back to Elizabeth that I believed I had a better claim to the throne of England than she did. And that angered her.

  No one was pleased.

  Chapter 20

  Death of a King

  IT WAS A TIME for royal weddings. In January of 1559, Princesse Claude, not yet twelve years old, married sixteen-year-old Charles, duke of Lorraine. For a time it appeared that Élisabeth would marry Carlos, the son of King Philip II of Spain, but those plans were abandoned. Instead, my dear sister-friend found herself pledged to be married by proxy to Carlos’s father, as had originally been proposed. She was frightened half to death of the life that lay ahead of her.

  I was with Élisabeth throughout the preparations for her wedding. I tried hard to distract her, assuring her that her husband would be considerate of her, though I had no idea if this was true. Élisabeth was fourteen; Philip was thirty-two. “He is old,” I reasoned. “He will surely make few demands on you.”

  I remembered the talk that Madame de Poitiers had given me before my marriage, and I hoped she would do the same for Élisabeth. And what of poor little Claude, who had not yet become a woman at the time of her marriage? The duke of Lorraine was a few years older but presumably inexperienced. What could one say to that poor child?

  I felt myself fortunate that my dear little François was still a boy, not yet a man; we were the best of friends, closer even than brother and sister, but not yet husband and wife.

  The royal family gathered in Paris for the wedding of Princesse Élisabeth to King Philip II on the twenty-first of June at the Cathedral of Notre Dame, with the duke of Alba standing as proxy for the Spanish king. Élisabeth’s gown was a rich yellow satin adorned with pearls and yellow gems, and though she did not share my desire to be unconventional, the princess appeared to delight in being the center of attention.

  “My mother says I do not have to leave France until late in the autumn,” she told me, “and the journey to Spain will be a long one. There will be another wedding ceremony in Guadalajara, in Spain, and my husband, Philip, will be present.” She colored a little, turning a pretty pink when she spoke of “my husband,” which she did often. She asked again, “You will come to visit me, will you not, Marie? Promise you will not forget me!”

  I gave my word that I would visit if I could, but in any case I would never forget her.

  ***

  A few days later, in celebration of his daughter’s marriage and his own sister Marguerite’s betrothal to the duke of Savoy, the king and his court moved to the Hôtel des Tournelles to indulge in the king’s favorite passion, jousting. No one could fail to notice that King Henri wore black and white in honor of Madame de Poitiers.

  Late in the afternoon of the third day the king insisted on a rematch with the captain of the king’s guards, though he had already broken three lances against the captain and two other opponents. Madame de Poitiers and Queen Catherine tried to persuade him that he had bested the captain fairly and no rematch was necessary. But, the king reminded them, the captain was ahead on points.

  “I shall break one more lance, in celebration of the marriage of my eldest daughter!” the king insisted stubbornly and called for his white stallion, Le Malheureux—“the Unhappy One.”

  The captain reluctantly obeyed the king’s command to mount, and the two men took up their lances. The crowd—gentlemen on one side, ladies on the other—settled back to watch what all hoped would be the last event of the day The two combatants rode to opposite ends of the list, lowered the visors on their helmets, and prepared to charge at each other at full gallop.

  We heard the sharp metallic clash as the captain’s lance struck the king’s armor and a loud crack as the lance broke. The king fell, blood gushing through his visor. The captain, leaping from his horse, was the first to reach him. For a moment the people in the viewing stands were too stunned to move. Madame de Poitiers and Queen Catherine rushed to him. The duchess dropped to her knees by his side, weeping. The queen gave an agonized cry and collapsed in a swoon. So did several of her ladies. François, pale with fear, hung back, clinging to my hand, crying, “What happened? What happened?”

  A large sliver of wood had passed through a slit in the king’s visor and pierced his eye. My uncle François took co
ntrol, ordering the king to be carried to his bedroom and dispatching messengers to summon physicians and surgeons.

  I attended the queen, who recovered herself quickly. My husband, trembling, looked to me for guidance. “Assist me with the queen, your mother,” I told him, and the two of us raised her to her feet. In our path stood Diane de Poitiers, her black and white gown splattered with the king’s blood. I saw the look that passed between the king’s wife and the king’s mistress; the duchess held her breath for a moment and then released it in a sigh. Madame de Poitiers bowed slightly and stepped aside.

  Over the next ten days the queen and the dauphin and I never left King Henri’s bedside. The finest surgeons in Paris examined him and brought the terrible news that the sliver of wood had entered his brain. Though they worked day and night to save him, and we prayed hour after hour for his life to be spared, the king was doomed. Ten days after being dealt the fatal blow, King Henri II received the last sacrament. He died on July 10, 1559.

  François was declared king. I was now the queen of France.

  Chapter 21

  Coronation

  FRANÇOIS AND I tried to collect our thoughts. Both of us were shattered. François could barely speak and escaped into sleep for long hours. Though exhausted from weeping, I could not sleep. We were not prepared for his sudden, awful death. We had both assumed—if we had thought about it at all—that the king, a strong and vital man of forty, would live for many years. Neither of us knew how to rule a kingdom. We would have much to learn.

  Queen Catherine ordered the walls and floors of her apartments covered with black silk with just two candles burning on a black-draped altar. In the days after King Henri’s death I did all I could to be of help to her, standing by her side and speaking with the important visitors who came to offer condolences.

  My father-in-law and I had enjoyed a warm and cordial relationship. From my earliest days in the French court we had passed many pleasant hours together in conversation. I would miss him deeply. My feelings about my mother-in-law were much more complicated.

  I would now take Catherine’s place as queen consort, while she assumed the title of queen mother. She acknowledged this change in our relative status by sending me the crown jewels, adding a few beautiful pieces of her own to the dazzling collection. When I thanked her but protested at her generosity, she managed a sad smile. “They suit you better than me,” she said. “I have little use for them now. I shall spend the rest of my life in mourning.”

  One of her first acts as the king’s widow was to summon her great rival, Madame de Poitiers. Everyone was curious to see what Queen Catherine would do. She could order Diane to be imprisoned, or even executed, if she chose. I was not present for the scene that took place in private between the two women, so I do not know exactly what was said, though Sinclair repeated the gossip from her usual sources.

  “Queen Catherine kept her kneeling for some time, like she was thinking it over. It must have been a delicious moment for the queen, and a very uneasy one for the duchess! Then Madame de Poitiers begged permission to speak, and the queen granted it, but the servant who was present was hard-pressed to hear what the duchess had to say, her voice was so quiet. 'I am most heartily sorry for any wrongs that I may have committed against your royal person, and I most humbly beg my lady queen’s forgiveness.’ ”

  “What did the queen say to that?” I asked.

  “She accused the duchess of being an evil influence on the king and told her she deserved severe punishment but would receive clemency,” Sinclair reported with obvious satisfaction. “First, the queen ordered her to turn over all the jewels King Henri had given her. Then she ordered her to give up the château of Chenonceaux. It’s one the queen always wanted, they say, but the king had given it to Diane. Now Catherine can have it.”

  “That was all? No more was said?”

  “Oh, yes! Here’s the best: 'Finally, madame, you are banished from this court from this day forward. We no longer wish to endure the sight of you.’ And then the duchess was dismissed.”

  A sudden accident, an unexpected death, and the most powerful woman in the French court was now completely helpless, fortunate to escape with her life. Madame de Poitiers had been kind to me, and I valued her friendship. The swiftness of her fall stunned me, but I knew that I could not show her any sympathy without giving offense to the queen mother.

  “Maman wishes me to write the duchess a letter,” my husband told me when we had a few moments together. “I am to tell Madame de Poitiers that because of the evil influence she held over my father, she deserves to be punished severely, even with death, but that as king I intend to show her mercy.”

  “I thought you were fond of Madame de Poitiers,” I said.

  François shrugged. “I was. But she did make Maman unhappy Maman wishes me to do it, and so I will.”

  “Of course,” I agreed and turned away, wondering if as king he would always do as Maman wished.

  There was one more significant change: My uncle the duke of Guise took over the elegant apartments that had formerly belonged to Diane de Poitiers. His look of triumph was undisguised.

  ***

  The funeral for the king took place in mid-August at Notre Dame, the cathedral where, only a few weeks earlier, we had celebrated the marriage of Princesse Élisabeth with such joy. From there, the king’s body was carried in a solemn procession to the Basilica of Saint-Denis, the final resting place of the kings of France. With my uncle Charles presiding, and my other Guise uncles playing major roles, the body of the dead king was entombed.

  A month later, in September of 1559, the court made its way to Reims, where French kings were traditionally crowned. The weather was wet and miserable, and it rained so heavily that the ceremony, which was to take place on a Sunday, had to be postponed until the next day My uncle Charles preached the sermon at vespers the preceding evening. While listening to his mellow voice as he spoke words of praise over the coffin of the dead king, I watched my husband, seated near the altar. He did not appear to be nervous. Rather, he seemed benumbed.

  I searched for one of my other Guise uncles, François, Le Balafré. Though he wore a long face and went through the motions of mourning with impeccable style, I sensed that he and his brother were in fact jubilant. They had always tried to hide their confidence that their futures and their fortunes were tied to mine. Charles’s failure to secure the pope’s decree that Queen Elizabeth of England was illegitimate, which would have cleared the way for me to make my claim, had been a disappointment for the Guise family. But that was only a temporary setback. Now that I was queen of France, they had real power in their hands. They could scarcely conceal their pleasure in this sudden improvement in their fortunes.

  The cathedral at Reims would have been beautiful if sunlight had been streaming through the stained-glass windows, but the skies on the day of the coronation were dark with heavy clouds. Thunder rolled as François prepared for the long hours ahead. He was still very small for his age, and he looked much younger than his fifteen years. He knew that, and it bothered him. “I do not look kingly,” he complained. “I must look kingly!”

  I was the one person—besides his mother—with whom he felt entirely at ease. Others found him moody, quick to anger, sometimes pompous, but with me he was none of these. He had recently taken to affecting a swagger in his walk, though I tried to convince him it was better just to be himself.

  “You look every inch a king, mon cher,” I said, attempting to reassure him. I truly thought he looked like a small boy pretending to be king in a make-believe crown.

  “I shall no doubt be bored to death,” he muttered before he was led away François needed me to bolster his confidence. He depended upon me. I knew he would be aching to talk to me during the coronation. Yet on the most important occasion of my young husband’s life, by convention, I could not be with him.

  We had been married for a year and a half. I called François my sweetheart and friend, and he often spe
nt the night in my bed while we talked quietly together until one of us fell asleep. We were the best of friends, we had great affection for each other, but we were not yet lovers. That would come later, I felt certain, though without Madame de Poitiers to consult I sometimes had doubts about how our marital obligations would be met and how our duty to produce the future kings of France would be fulfilled. I refused to let that worry me, reminding myself whenever doubt crept in that Queen Catherine had been slow to fulfill her role as well.

  Now I took my place near the altar in a small private alcove with Queen Catherine and Princesse Élisabeth, whose marriage celebration had been so cruelly disrupted by the accident that took her father’s life. Élisabeth and her mother and the other ladies of the court were dressed in stark black in mourning for the king. Though I could have followed their example and worn black, I chose to wear my lily-white wedding gown, knowing that I stood out, that every eye would be upon me. I was now the queen of France. Why should all eyes not be upon me?

  The ceremony continued for most of the day—anthems, prayers, the Mass, the litany. On and on it droned while rain beat against the cathedral windows, and clouds of incense stung our eyes. I knew that François was tired and restless and eager for the ceremony to end. My uncle presented François with the symbols of kingship: ring, scepter, and a gold crown so heavy that four noblemen had to hold it in place above his head.

  We rose stiffly from the long hours of sitting and left immediately for the coronation feast in the great hall of the archbishop’s palace. Poor King François! In keeping with an ancient ritual, the guests were seated at long tables according to their rank—all but the king, who sat alone at a table in the center of the hall, symbolizing that he, and only he, ruled France. That symbolism also reminded me that I was his consort and not, by law, his co-ruler. A poor law, I thought, for I was certain that I could supply him with the strength he sorely needed but seemed to lack.