In a golden cage, his eye will be put out.
Two into one, then to die a cruel death.’
‘That is it! And more than once has Nostradamus seen this vision of the king, the lion, brought down. O cruel death! It is he. I know it!’ The queen sobbed and pulled at her hair. ‘The king will die. My husband is doomed. Henri will die a cruel death!’
‘Madam, be still, I beg you.’ The astrologer tried to calm her. ‘Some water . . .’
There was the gurgle of water being poured from a jug, and the lower sound of a woman weeping piteously.
‘Sometimes’ – Ruggieri was choosing his words with care – ‘that which we think we see in the future does not always come to pass.’
He was in a difficult situation. If he denied the strength of Nostradamus’s predictions, then he placed his own on a shaky foundation.
‘And there can be different interpretations—’ He stopped.
Although upset, Queen Catherine was beginning to recover herself. ‘I am glad to be prepared. I appreciate that the visions can be warnings and I will take them as such and be on my guard.’
‘The queen is always wise in her interpretation and understanding,’ said Ruggieri, ‘but these séances can be draining. May I respectfully suggest that you take some rest?’
Now I must flee! I tiptoed away and started down the staircase. Above me, the queen and Ruggieri prepared to descend. I lifted my skirts and ran.
And then I heard a noise. I stopped in alarm. The noise wasn’t coming from the top, but from the entrance to the tower. Someone was approaching from the ground floor.
Great God! I was in extreme danger, trapped between the queen coming down and an unknown presence hurrying up. For a second my thoughts froze; then I recalled a chamber on the landing I’d just passed. I darted back up, pulled open the door of a dingy turret room, tiptoed inside and drew the door behind me. The grate of a boot heel on the stairs! Then complete silence. The person outside was listening at the door – as I’d done earlier to check if there was anyone inside. I held my breath. A rustle of clothes as whoever it was moved quietly on and up. It had to be someone known to the queen, who knew the way to her private tower and was allowed to meet her and speak to her alone late at night.
I must get away. As soon as the person had passed, I slipped down the stairs and into the corridor. Dinner had ended and the passageway was now bustling with people making assignations, preparing to retire, or heading for different salons to game or drink or gossip.
I mingled with a knot of Scots courtiers, managing to dally long enough to see who came out of the tower.
Three people.
First the queen, Catherine de’ Medici.
Next her astrologer, Cosimo Ruggieri.
A delay. Then the last person. Emerging into the corridor, his cloak pulled up to make himself less conspicuous, a man melted away into the crowd. But not so fast that I couldn’t identify this person who’d passed me on the stairs to go and consult privately with Queen Catherine de’ Medici.
The Scots Lord of Knoydart, Sir Duncan Alexander.
Chapter 9
FESTERING AMIDST THE continued wedding celebrations was a mood of religious and civil unrest which those at court contrived to ignore.
Northern France, especially Paris, was mainly loyal to the Guise family, who were fervent Catholics. If some Huguenot heads were knocked together and ended up in the Seine, there were few city magistrates prepared to act on any complaint made.
However, a chance encounter meant that I could not remain oblivious to the changes within French society. Most mornings I went riding with my servant, Maurice, and a groom. Our route was always carefully chosen to be safe and as private as possible – we used the nearest royal park to wherever the court was assembled – but I had already noticed posters attached to buildings and trees along our way. On this particular day, when we’d stopped to let the horses rest after a gallop, I heard the pleasant sound of voices lifted in song to praise God.
‘Maurice, who are these people who are singing hymns so early in the morning?’ I asked my servant.
His eyes opened wide, but he did not answer, no doubt thinking that I was angry at the disturbance. We trotted on and the singers’ words became clearer. And I realized they were singing in French.
‘Oh!’ I said.
Maurice exchanged a look with the groom that told me more than any wordy explanation. If the words were not in Latin, then it must be a group belonging to some branch of the Reformed faith and it was unlawful for them to gather in public. Suddenly, above the singing, I heard another noise. Hoofbeats behind us. A larger party of nobles from the palace were out for a morning ride – escorted by armed soldiers.
And now both Maurice and the groom looked truly fearful. Scarcely thinking what I was doing, I wheeled my horse round and galloped back the road. Waving my hand in the air, I called out, ‘A tree has fallen across the path ahead! Best go by another way!’
The nobles readily followed my suggestion and we headed off down a different forest track.
The incident was never spoken of, but subsequently, on occasion, Protestant tracts and leaflets appeared in places where I could not help but find them. In this way I became educated in the current thinking of the Reformers. When they spoke of the excesses of the established Church, their grievances seemed just. I was less sure of their interpretation of Biblical texts. With respect to politics I relied on my father’s letters to give a truer picture of what was happening in the world outside the court:
In England Mary Tudor’s measures to promote Catholicism are pitiless [my father wrote to me from Edinburgh in the summer], and the bonfires claim Protestant martyrs. Within predominantly Catholic Scotland the Reformers, encouraged by John Knox, are now in open defiance of the queen regent. The situation here deteriorates from week to week. Religious fervour is used to mask political aims, and ordinary people are manipulated by those seeking wealth and high office. Our French soldiers haven’t been paid and are no longer viewed as protectors but as invaders. My commission will soon be at an end, and although I am loath to leave my men in these straits, I will be glad to return to the peace of our estates in Hautepré. Perhaps you might ask to be excused from court and meet me there?
The thought of joining my father in the south of France did appeal to me. I recalled many happy childhood holidays with my parents in between my father’s tours of duty. But I was glad that his commission was not yet done: I couldn’t abandon Mary at this time. She required my presence, for her new bridegroom, Francis, spent more time out hunting than in the company of his wife.
‘Francis is still a boy,’ Mary told me, ‘while I’ – she blushed – ‘I am ready to be a woman.’
Others also thought it time she became a woman – not only as a wife but as a mother. However, the weeks passed and there was no indication of any pregnancy.
‘I am content to wait for motherhood,’ she said, ‘for Francis is happy as we are.’
‘He’s more a child than a husband,’ was Marie Fleming’s comment.
‘Perhaps you, who think you know so much about the ways of men, cannot appreciate that this can be a satisfactory relationship,’ retorted Marie Seton.
We all stared at this outburst. It was at odds with Marie Seton’s quiet nature to be so vocal. But then, she was older than us and had turned down offers of marriage, so utterly devoted was she to Mary and determined to remain by her side.
‘I meant no offence!’ Marie Fleming cried, and went at once to hug her, for although we bickered as young women do, it was never with malice, nor did we ever hold a grudge for long.
‘I confess that I cosset Francis,’ said Mary. ‘His mother never did, and mine has been absent in my life, so we recompense each other in that way. Perhaps I indulge him too much.’
‘There are far fewer official receptions to attend,’ I pointed out, ‘now that most of the Scots lords have gone home.’
This was an additional reason why I pr
eferred to stay close to Mary. Her personal guard was depleted and the court was at Fontainebleau for the autumn; on several occasions I’d glimpsed the Count of Cluny here.
I tucked my father’s latest letter into a fold of my dress as I saw Mary coming from the garden, escorted by the Scots who’d remained with her. Duncan Alexander was among them, and on seeing him, I acknowledged to myself that he was the reason I wanted to be here and not at Hautepré. My heart was pulling me towards this man with a strength that outweighed any other family ties.
‘Ah, Jenny,’ Mary called, ‘I do insist that you come to supper with us. I want to play a challenging game of cards, and you and Sir Duncan are both worthy opponents!’
His eyes met mine and he raised an eyebrow. ‘Are we opponents?’ he asked me lightly.
‘Leave off teasing!’ Mary tugged at his sleeve. ‘You know I didn’t mean that you opposed each other.’
‘I understood that, your majesty,’ he replied silkily. ‘I was making a jest.’
Since the episode in the tower, I’d tried to find out more about Duncan Alexander. Whenever I considered the events of that night, my thoughts ran in circles. I couldn’t fathom his purpose for being there. He was a man who didn’t speak of his family or background, and, upon making enquiries, I discovered that no one knew much of his lineage or allegiances. Knoydart was a remote part of Scotland left to him by an uncle who’d neither wife nor children of his own. Some years ago Duncan arrived in Edinburgh to legalize his in heritance, part of which consisted of a position at court as one of the monarch’s advisers on formal occasions. Nobles who held a court office like this could interpret it as no more than expressing an opinion on the most suitable dress for a ball. How Duncan viewed his duties I really did not know.
I went to my room to change for supper and chose to return by a shorter route that went past the serving pantries. Someone was walking ahead of me and, although he was quite far away, I recognized the Count of Cluny.
I stopped at once. It was inevitable that I would meet him again at Fontainebleau. After all, this was where Catherine de’ Medici had awarded him land and a house in which to practise his apothecary skills. Hoping to avoid him while I was alone I waited until he disappeared down a corridor, and then walked slowly in the direction of Mary’s supper room. As I passed the pantry, I noticed that the curtain was partly open and glanced inside. Boards of sweetmeats were laid out. There were over a dozen varieties: cherries dipped in syrup, raisin cakes, dainty marzipan shapes and pastries sprinkled with sugar dust.
Sugar . . .
The scene in Queen Catherine’s study was before me. I could hear her voice speaking of the poison she kept hidden in the secret compartment: It resembles sugar crystals and is sweet, but with an aroma and taste similar to mint . . .
I gazed at the trays, a cold sweat breaking out upon me. If I made an alarm I would have to say why I suspected the food had been poisoned. The Count of Cluny was under Queen Catherine’s protection so I couldn’t risk it being discovered how I knew. If I did nothing, then these would be served and Mary might eat one. I recalled Catherine telling the count that small doses of the poison could make someone constantly unwell and therefore easy to control. This could be the queen’s way of reducing Mary’s hold over Francis and reasserting her own. What could I do?
I picked up a pastry that I knew was one of Mary’s favourite kinds, hesitated, then opened my mouth and popped it in. No minty flavour. That was the solution! I would taste a sample of each one. If there was any trace of mint then I would throw that sort away. I ate another and another. There was nothing amiss with them. They tasted of marzipan and sugar and plum and orange, as they should.
But now I did not feel well – not because they were poisoned, but because I’d eaten so much rich fare that I was about to be sick. I moaned and clutched my throat.
There was a sound behind me. The curtain opened to reveal Duncan Alexander standing there. Moving swiftly, he emptied a bowl of dainties onto the floor and put it under my chin. He looked at the food trays and then at me in a most peculiar way. ‘I don’t how your waist stays so trim if you consume so many pastries and sugared foods.’
Diplomatically he diverted his eyes as I spat the contents of my mouth and some of my stomach into the bowl. Then he handed me a napkin.
‘I thank you,’ I said shakily.
‘The Queen of Scots sent me to find you to see if some indisposition had delayed you. What should I tell her?’
‘I – I was hungry,’ I stammered.
‘It ill becomes a lady not to control her appetite,’ he observed.
The pain in my stomach was easing, and shame and sickness were replaced with annoyance at his condescending tone. ‘And yet a man may drink and wench as much as he pleases and no comment is made!’ I retorted. ‘If you’ll excuse me’ – I almost pushed him aside – ‘I should go.’
‘Perhaps you need some assistance?’ He was grinning in amusement.
‘I do not need your help,’ I said, and attempted to sweep out of the room in a dignified manner but spoiled the effect by tripping. I heard him laugh out loud; he was still laughing behind me when I entered Mary’s apartments.
‘We are waiting for you to begin our game of cards. Where have you been, Jenny?’ she asked.
‘I – I . . .’ I could not think what to reply. I can make pleasantries as well as anyone but outright lies do not form easily on my tongue.
Behind me Duncan interrupted, ‘I beg your pardon, majesty. It is my fault. I delayed your lady Ginette in conversation.’
We took our places and I waited for him to make some flippant remark, but he said nothing of my disgrace. Perhaps he was more kindly than I thought.
Our card game continued until Mary declared herself weary and said she wished to see Francis before she retired for the night. She was on the point of rising from her chair when there was a commotion in the doorway. A messenger, out of breath and dishevelled, begged to be admitted with news that must be relayed directly to Mary Stuart. He was speaking urgently to the guard who’d brought him to the door: ‘I was told to ride hard to Fontainebleau and make sure that I speak personally to Mary, Queen of Scots.’
‘Who gave you these instructions?’
‘Lord James Stuart, before he collapsed.’
‘My brother is unwell?’ Mary stood up.
The messenger came past the guard and dropped on one knee before her. ‘Disaster has befallen your Scots lords on their journey home. All have taken seriously ill. One is already dead and more were dying as I left.’
Chapter 10
‘JAMES! MY BROTHER! James! James!’ Mary’s voice pitched into hysteria. Half swooning, she swayed and her knees buckled.
Duncan Alexander caught her as she fell. I was at her other side and we bore her to a couch. Attendants ran for cloths and vinegar water. Her complexion was bleached of colour, her fingers tinged blue. I rubbed her hands between my own to stimulate the circulation. Mary’s eyelashes fluttered and she moaned, ‘Is he dead – my brother and my friend?’
‘Hush, hush,’ I soothed her. ‘We will try to find out.’ I turned to ask Duncan Alexander to question the messenger, but he’d disappeared.
Marie Livingston offered to go and find Francis, but the French court was a close-knit community, and courtiers were already running between the royal apartments with the news.
‘Lord James has a strong constitution,’ I assured Mary. ‘Whatever this sickness is, he’s sure to survive. He’ll send another message soon.’ I said this with more conviction than I felt, for if all the Scots lords were ill, then so might be their servants and grooms.
The Maries and I took turns to sit by Mary’s bed through the long night. Francis had no great affection for Lord James Stuart. He’d complained to Mary of her brother’s behaviour on his wedding night, when, instead of protecting him from the worst excesses of his rowdy companions, he had plastered rouge and face paint on the Dauphin’s face. Yet, out of sympathy for Mary, F
rancis curled up in a chair in the corner of her chamber and fell asleep with his mouth hanging open, drooling like a little boy. He would have remained there, but for the fact that his mother heard of it and ordered his personal manservant to lift him, still asleep, and take him to his own rooms. Although they sent messages of commiseration, neither she nor the king came to offer support.
Duncan Alexander did not reappear until past midnight. He knocked softly on the outer door, and when Marie Seton saw who it was, she brought me from Mary’s bedchamber to speak to him.
‘How fares the queen?’ he asked.
‘How would you expect?’ I answered, angry and disappointed that he’d forsaken us in the midst of the frenzy. ‘Where were you when we needed you?’ I demanded.
‘I left her in the best hands possible,’ Duncan replied with equal vehemence. ‘Yours!’ he added, in case there was any doubt.
‘But your presence was required here!’
‘No it wasn’t. What was required was for me to find more of the Scots Guard to double the ones on duty outside these apartments. Don’t you realize the potential danger of a situation like this?’
‘Yes, I do!’ By now I was shaking with relief at seeing him. ‘The chambermaids and lackeys have been coming and going with wild tales of murder and massacre. We thought we might be attacked.’ I didn’t want to admit that I’d also wanted him here so I’d know he was safe.
Duncan looked at me more closely. ‘I appreciate that you are under stress, Jenny, but there was no time to explain. I had to find out if any other messengers came into Fontainebleau tonight in addition to the one from Lord James.’
‘And did they?’ I asked, my calm returning.
‘Yes, several . . .’ he said slowly. ‘And they were reporting to a variety of different people.’
‘Oh.’ I sat down upon a nearby stool. ‘I forgot – there is a web of spies and counterspies all around this court.’ I looked up at him. His face was unshaven, his eyes red-rimmed.
‘It has taken all my skill and contacts to try to piece together what is happening. I’ve dispatched a courier of my own but won’t know any details until he reports in,’ he went on.
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