The Wild Queen

by Carolyn Meyer

  ***

  The death of my mother was a devastating loss for me. My husband tried to offer solace. “I understand what a great grief it is to lose one’s beloved parent,” François said, tenderly stroking my hand.

  While my mother still lived, I had several times proposed to François that I make the journey to Scotland by myself, but he did not want me to leave him. His health, too, was delicate. He insisted upon riding to the hunt at every opportunity and then needed days to regain his strength. I agreed to postpone my trip until he felt stronger. But his health did not improve, and to my immense sorrow; I had not had the chance to see my mother one last time.

  Yet in the midst of my anguish, there came a great joy. I believed that I was at last with child. As queen of France, my chief duty was to provide the king with heirs. While I worried incessantly over what was to become of Scotland, I also worried that le petit roi had not yet reached manhood. I prayed nightly that he would and that I could then fulfill my duty. I wished that I could go to the disgraced Diane de Poitiers for advice and counsel. The duchess had instructed us well in how to behave on our wedding night with the little vial of blood to deceive King Henri into believing that the marriage had been consummated. Perhaps she could help me now. But if the queen mother, Catherine, were to find out that I had gone to Diane, whom she had banished, she would be deeply offended and perhaps angry with me. I could not risk it.

  I considered speaking to Anne d’Este, who had now borne six children of my uncle’s, but I could not bring myself to raise such an intimate subject with her, and so I postponed the conversation.

  I wish to say this delicately: As the king’s wife, I was his dearest friend, but in fact I was still a virgin. François visited my bed often, and we lay close together and whispered to one another, but because my husband was still not a mature man, our closeness resulted in nothing. Nevertheless, we believed that it may have resulted after all in something, for I felt quite ill—faint and queasy—and convinced myself that these were the signs of pregnancy.

  The symptoms persisted for a month. I took to wearing a long, loose tunic such as women wore as their bellies swelled. I ordered the cooks to prepare special foods for me. And I persuaded François that we must leave Fontainebleau for Saint-Germain, where the air was cooler.

  François and I rejoiced privately. When we told his mother, she smiled and nodded, but I could sense that she doubted me. “It would be well for you to consult a physician,” she said.

  Eventually I did. The physician, after he had examined me carefully, told me what I had already begun to suspect. “Madame my queen,” he said, “I regret to tell you that you are mistaken. You are not with child. It seems that you are also still a virgin.” He raised a quizzical eyebrow, but he said no more, and though I thought of asking him questions, my nerve failed me.

  I repeated his words to François, who was as disappointed as I. We promised each other that as soon his health improved, he would certainly reach full manhood, and our duty would be accomplished. I gave away my tunics to a servant, and I spoke of the matter to no one—not even the Four Maries, who looked at me so sympathetically that I was afraid I would burst into wrenching sobs.

  I knew what was being whispered in the servants’ quarters as well as in the great halls: “If the queen conceives a child, it will surely not be the king’s.” If I had heard these malicious comments, then François must have heard them also. But he did not say, and I did not ask.

  In the autumn we had a second visit from the earl of Bothwell. James Hepburn had been devoted to my mother, loyal to a fault in spending his own funds to help her keep her regency. Now he came to ask if there might be some way to gain reimbursement for at least a portion of the money he had spent. He told us that he was betrothed to Anna Throndssen, the daughter of a wealthy Norwegian.

  “Will you marry her, then?” I asked.

  “Perhaps,” he replied with his winning smile. “Her father has offered me a handsome dowry”

  “Then perhaps you should accept it,” I told him. “I am deeply grateful for all the help you gave my mother, the queen. But, I regret to say, I have no funds to repay you.”

  “I did it out of love for Scotland as well as admiration for the queen. I only wish I could say as much for your brother Lord James. He claims also to act out of his love for Scotland and her people, but I suspect that he acts chiefly out of love for himself.”

  “I wish to hear more of this, Lord Bothwell,” I said. “And of other matters as well.”

  François, looking paler and more fatigued than usual, left us, and Bothwell and I talked on. I had many questions for the earl. “Tell me, my friend—and I do consider you my friend—tell me what you can of this Protestant minister John Knox.”

  “Ah, our good preacher Knox!” he remarked sarcastically He reached again for the bottle of French brandy that stood on a table between us and poured a generous glassful. “Knox is a former Catholic priest who became a Protestant reformer and served as chaplain to young King Edward the Sixth of England. When Edward died and Mary Tudor became queen and restored the Catholic Church, Knox fled England for the Continent. After some twists and turns, he was captured by the French and made a galley slave.”

  I listened, fascinated, as Lord Bothwell spun out his story. I remembered my voyage from Dumbarton a dozen years earlier and the prisoners below decks, chained to benches and forced to row hour upon hour while a ship’s officer stood over them with a whip. I wondered now if Knox had been among those unfortunate men during that long, difficult journey.

  Lord Bothwell paused from time to time for a fortifying swallow of brandy before he continued. “When Knox finally gained his freedom, he eventually returned to Scotland, where he was made welcome by your brother. In Edinburgh he preached openly against the Catholic Church and in favor of the Protestant Reformation. Later he moved again to the Continent, and while he was in Geneva, he wrote this.”

  From his leather bag Lord Bothwell pulled a pamphlet, obviously much perused. It was titled The First Blast of the Trumpet Against the Monstrous Regiment of Women. I could not read English yet, but Bothwell translated it for me. “Knox believes that the rule of women is unnatural.”

  “What women has he in mind?” I asked.

  Lord Bothwell grimaced. “There are two. The first was Queen Mary Tudor of England. It was written before Elizabeth became queen, but she would make the third, not the second.”

  “Who, then, is the second?”

  “Marie Stuart, queen of Scotland.”

  I stared at Lord Bothwell, agape. “I? He finds me monstrous? This is outrageous, sir! The man has never even met me!”

  “Not you in person, madame. No one in his right mind could find you monstrous. It is the idea of you that offends him. And now he is in Edinburgh and preaching against you. Your mother, the queen regent, declared him an outlaw. I regret to tell you that when he learned of the final hours of Marie of Guise, he rejoiced in her suffering and claimed it was the hand of God wreaking vengeance upon her.”

  “Why are you telling me this horror, Lord Bothwell?” I cried, shaking uncontrollably.

  “So that you may be prepared, my lady, for what you might find when you one day return to rule Scotland.”

  I shuddered. “Then it is not likely that I shall return.”

  We had talked far into the night. Now we sat silently as the candles burned down and guttered out. I stifled a yawn. “I beg you, leave me, s’il vous plaît,” I said wearily. “The hour is very late, and I have a great deal on my mind.”

  Lord Bothwell sprang from his chair and knelt close to me. “Are you ordering me to leave, Madame Marie?” he asked, taking my hand in his. “For if you would allow it, I would spend the remainder of the night here with you and cherish every minute of it.” He traced my cheek with a gentle forefinger. “A fine bonnie lass you are, Marie Stuart,” he said softly.

  We gazed at each other for a long moment. I was aware of a deep stirring I had never before
experienced. I found myself powerfully drawn to this man, and my mouth was so dry that I could not give voice to my thoughts. When I could speak again, I said, “Aye, James Hepburn, I will not order you as my subject, but I beg you as my friend: go now.”

  “But first this,” he said, and he took me in his arms and kissed me passionately.

  It was a kiss unlike any I had ever experienced or even imagined. Stunned at first, I found myself responding to his kiss. But after a long moment I came to my senses and struggled to free myself from his embrace. “Lord Bothwell!” I gasped.

  “I beg your pardon, my lady queen,” he said, releasing me. “Though my behavior is unpardonable, it does reflect my deep feelings.” He bowed humbly “Adieu, my queen.” Then he was gone.

  With the heavy ironclad door closed firmly behind the earl of Bothwell, I sank weakly into my chair and reviewed, over and over, those startling moments in the arms of my bold countryman. I laid my head on my table and wept, overcome with rage at the abominable John Knox, sorrow for the suffering of my poor dear mother, and now this: a nameless yearning for a newly discovered feeling and the man who had briefly awakened it.

  Chapter 24

  Le Petit Roi

  I TRIED WITHOUT SUCCESS to banish James Hepburn, earl of Bothwell, from my thoughts. To my shame, I even dreamed of him. But I did not see him again, though I heard that he had gone on to Denmark. I wondered when his marriage to Anna Throndssen would take place. I wondered if he truly loved her. Then events overtook me, and I had no more opportunity to allow the audacious Scot into my dreams.

  The court moved to Orléans, and François began to plan a hunting expedition in the forests of Chenonceaux and Chambord, intending to be gone for at least two weeks. Hunting was the great passion in his life, despite his delicate physical state. Other young men of his age—he would soon be seventeen—were strong and hearty, but my husband was undersized and sickly. He had always been more fragile than the other children in the royal nursery. His mother still doted on him and enlisted me in her efforts to protect him.

  While his servants were preparing for that long expedition, François decided to go for a brief hunt nearby at Orléans. “Do come with me, Marie,” he suggested.

  I did sometimes join the hunt—I especially enjoyed falconry—but I did not wish to go with him on a cold, damp Saturday in mid-November. “Another time,” I promised. “I prefer to stay by the fire with the queen mother and work on my stitchery. I have some rather elaborate pieces to complete for the exchange of gifts at the new year.”

  “As you wish, madame.” My husband brushed my hand with his lips. I noticed that he looked tired, that the skin of his face was inflamed, that he sometimes grimaced and rubbed his ear. But I thought no more of it then. He left with his gentlemen, and I joined the queen mother and her ladies for more needlework.

  The queen mother’s secretary read aloud a letter that had recently been received from her daughter Élisabeth. It had been a year since the princess left for Guadalajara, and I missed her. The arrival of one of her letters was always a joyous occasion.

  Philip is so much older than I, she wrote, that I feared we would have little to say to each other. But he is a most tender and attentive husband, and I count myself to be among the most fortunate to have married such a charming man.

  I was especially interested in the part of the letter in which Élisabeth confided to her maman that the charming Philip had found himself in such a state of delight with his new wife that he had abandoned his mistress. I managed a surreptitious glance at Queen Mother Catherine, whose own husband had never been in such a state of delight that he was inclined to abandon Madame de Poitiers.

  Late in the afternoon François returned from hunting. A freezing rain had been falling for most of the day, and he was wet and shivering. The queen mother immediately began fussing over him.

  “Perhaps you wish to see to your husband’s comfort?” Catherine asked me pointedly.

  “I believe that my husband can see to his own comfort,” I replied. I too was concerned, but I felt that he was of an age to change his clothes and have a hot drink and warm himself by the fire in his quarters without help. I was his wife, not his nurse or governess.

  My mother-in-law glared at me disapprovingly. “Then I shall see to it,” she said, and she marched stiffly out of the chamber.

  I have since regretted my words, but at the time I continued stubbornly with my work, needle in, needle out, needle in...

  ***

  We did not realize at first how ill François was. He complained that his ear hurt. He felt dizzy. “The world is spinning,” he said.

  Two days later it was still spinning, and he told his physician that he heard ringing noises and buzzing. The next day, while we were kneeling side by side at Mass in the royal chapel, he suddenly slumped over in a faint. When he revived, he cried, “The pain! The pain!” as he was carried to his bed.

  I did not want to accept the words of the physicians who gathered around him. They told me that he was terribly ill. “It is possible that his illness is fatal.”

  “You must save him!” cried his mother. “You must not let him die!”

  My uncles paced, clearly agitated, but they were distressed for a different reason. They understood that if le petit roi were to die, they would lose the main source of their power. For a time they understated the gravity of the king’s illness when members of the court asked them for reports. They claimed that he suffered from a catarrh, no more than that. But most in the court thought my uncles were lying. The rumor circulated that le petit roi had been poisoned.

  The doctors worked desperately to save him. They bled him and purged him with enemas. His condition worsened. Watery stuff ran from his ear. At times he was unable to speak and lay motionless, staring blankly. I rarely left his side, and then only for short periods. He did not seem to recognize me.

  My relations with my mother-in-law worsened. The enmity that had brewed quietly for some time had intensified after King Henri’s death. Now it was out in the open. As Francois’s condition became graver and he moved ever closer to Death’s black door, Queen Mother Catherine made it plain that she, as his mother, had the right to make the decisions concerning his care. While François lay unable to tell anyone what he needed or wanted—except, perhaps, for the torment to end—Catherine took over. I was pushed aside. Suddenly I was nothing, of no consequence, and I deeply resented it.

  On the fourth day of my husband’s terrible illness I learned from a servant that all of the king’s gentlemen had been sent away.

  “By whose order?” I asked.

  “The queen mother’s, madame.”

  I believed it was my right to decide who should be dismissed from my husband’s bedchamber and who might be allowed to stay, and I determined to confront her. But when I looked into Queen Catherine’s eyes and saw the anguish of a mother faced with losing her beloved child, I relented.

  “We must find a way to care for him together,” I told her. “I love François as much as you do, Madame Queen Mother.”

  “Non, you do not,” she said wearily. “But my son believes that you do, and in order to help him, I will agree to whatever you wish.”

  Her words wounded me, but I said no more. The two of us kept watch at François’s bedside from the earliest hours of the morning. We tasted the food that was brought to him to assure ourselves that he was not being poisoned. I had a pallet made up and stayed through the night by his side so that if he was able to call my name, however weakly I would be there to hear it, and I promised to send for his mother if he spoke even a single word. Queen Catherine then left for the night. I had asked her not to come to his bedchamber after the last visit from the physician. He was my husband, and I wanted him to myself. But so did she. I often awoke to find her, a wraith in black, hovering over his bed. No matter how much I protested, no matter how I wished she would remain in her private chapel to pray for him, the queen mother could not stay away.

 
When he was able to mumble a few words, I rushed to summon the priest to hear his last confession and to give him the sacrament before he lapsed into silence again. If I thought he could hear me, I lay beside him, whispering to him, sometimes singing the songs my mother used to sing to me. I endured his violent episodes, shut my ears against his screams and cries, covered my face against the terrible stench of his illness.

  The days passed in what must have been utter agony for my poor petit roi. Increasing his suffering were the bloodlettings and purges prescribed by the physicians; they only added to his torment. When I heard them discussing the possibility of drilling a hole in his skull to allow some of the fluid, or whatever was causing the intense pain, to escape, I fled from his bedchamber. My husband’s physical agony had become my heart’s anguish.

  Occasionally I briefly left the king’s side and called upon Sinclair to bring me the oat porridge that had always been a sustaining comfort and was now the only food I could swallow. After my wedding Sinclair had asked to be allowed to return to her family in Scotland, but I begged her to stay with me: “Just for a few months, Sinclair.” She had agreed, but the months had stretched into a year, and then more, and still I could not let her go. At this difficult time in my life, my old nurse remained my connection to earlier, easier days. Her fault, as well as her virtue, was that she repeated to me the rumors that always swirled through the servants’ quarters.

  “Sinclair, you must tell me what you hear,” I said as I poured thick cream over the soothing porridge. “It is important to me.”

  She shook her head. “There is nothing, mistress.”