Mary Queen of Scots

by Kathryn Lasky

  “Oh, Milady. It cannot be true. Of this I am sure.”

  “Just tell me, Mary, and let me be the judge.”

  Mary Seton lifted her chin and looked straight at me. “All the children had been running about and Queen Catherine suddenly said to Nostradamus, ‘You have told me of my children, but what about the one from Scotland? Do you perceive any calamity threatening this fair young head?’ And he answered in a very low voice, but we four Marys heard. ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘I perceive blood.’” Mary Seton’s chin began to quiver, and the tears that brimmed in her eyes fell in silvery tracks down her cheek.

  How can I describe my feelings? A terrible blackness seemed to well up from the pit of my stomach. I grasped Mary Seton’s hands harder, but then from someplace within me there came a strange and mysterious strength. I knew that I must not succumb to fear or tremors or tears. I must show courage. The blood of William Wallace does not run in my veins, but indeed his spirit invades my heart. I shall be a Braveheart worthy of Scotland. “Rest your fears, Mary Seton, and tell the other Marys to rest theirs. I shall speak with Monsieur Nostradamus myself. And remember, not every prophecy is fulfilled. Perhaps we should be grateful, for it will make us all the more vigilant.”

  As this point Mary Seton gasped and fell to her knees. “Your Majesty,” she whispered, “you are a true daughter of Scotland. You are bold of heart and stout of mind. You are a Queen!”

  “And you four Marys are the most faithful subjects a Queen could ever have.”

  January 22, 1554

  Tonight I plan to go to Nostradamus’s observatory. I know that the Queen makes night visits to him and with him observes the position of the stars. But the Queen will not be there tonight, as it is raining and the sky is thick with clouds and shall be starless. I cannot go alone for I am always to be accompanied by a guard. But whom to take? Monsieur Jallet, my maître d’hôtel? A wonderful servant but I fear he can be indiscreet. He loves gossip. My footman Alain – he, too, talks too much with all the grooms in the stables. Rufflets is simply too old. I must think on this. Meanwhile Princess Claude, Princess Elizabeth, Mary Livingston, Mary Fleming, and I are required to go to the music room. Queen Catherine is determined to have ballet master Balthazar teach us a ballet she wants us to learn. I am, needless to say, in no mood for ballet. It amazes me that even though I have my own household and can spend my own money I still am treated as a child in many ways. Janet Sinclair says I must be part of this stupid ballet. It would offend the King if I did not participate. We are to play the roles of ancient prophetesses. Ronsard has composed poetry to be accompanied by music from the rebec, and we are to dance these steps. I do not want to pretend to be some prophetess and dance around in a silly costume. It is so tedious, so boring, and all I want to do is see the prophet Nostradamus.

  Later

  I have had an inspired idea. I shall take no one with me to see Nostradamus. I shall disguise myself as a chambermaid. I have already spoken with Minette. We shall trade clothes for an hour or so. I shall put on her coif, partlets, kirtle, and smock, and whatever else a serving maid wears. I suddenly realize I really don’t know – at least not about the undergarments.

  January 23, 1554

  Just after midnight

  I am waiting now until the ancient guard who stands at the end of the corridor leading from my apartments to the grand salon is asleep. If it were young Robin MacClean, one of my Scots guards, I would not have a chance. But as soon as this old goat nods off, I can cross through the grand salon to the petit salon. There is a small passageway from that room that leads to the observatory. I never knew about this passageway, but Minette told me. She says that it is right behind the statue of King Charlemagne. There is a panel that appears ordinary like all the others in the salon but if I push, it will open. She cautions me that the stairs are steep. What an adventure!

  Already just getting into Minette’s clothes has been an adventure. How different they are and not just in appearance. She wears no undergarments, as least hardly any worth mentioning. There is no corseting and no hoops. No underpinnings or true partlets to fill in the neckline of the bodice or to wear over the kirtle. Well, actually there is no kirtle. She wears a loose shift and then she ties two skirts over that and laces up a vest that is scooped into a squarish neck. Instead of a partlet to hide the skin exposed by the bodice, she tucks in a scarf. Then over the two skirts there is an apron.

  Not one of these garments has a stitch of decoration or embroidery. Minette’s hair is entirely covered with a soft cap, the kind they call a muffin cap, for it looks as if a muffin or biscuit has plopped down on one’s head. But I must wear it or my red hair would reveal me immediately. Meanwhile Minette has slipped into my nightgown and my bed and is giggling madly. She says she has never felt anything as lovely as my fine cambric nightgown, and I say I have never felt anything as coarse as her carzie wool. I think the sheep this wool came from spent their entire lives in brambles. But now the deepest part of the night comes and Minette says it is safe for me to go. I will take one taper with me. I will go to visit the seer and ask about this blood he sees swirling around my head.

  January 24, 1553

  I do not quite know what to make of my meeting with Michel Nostradamus. I traversed the great salon, then went into the small one, where indeed behind the statue of Charlemagne I found the panel. The steps were steep as Minette said, but it was a short distance to the bottom. However, it seemed that I threaded my way forever through the narrow, dark tunnel. I suddenly panicked when the flame of my candle began guttering. I should have brought a second one to light from the first, a tinder flint or striking squib. I think my heart would have stopped if I had had no light. It was a dank and scary place to be. I saw the long thin tail of a rat disappear into a crevice. But finally I got to the end, where I mounted some other steps. These steps wound upward and upward in a spiral, and it seemed as if they, like the tunnel, would never end. To my surprise as I wound round the last bend, a door creaked open. There was a wedge of light, and then a large shadow slid out and printed itself against the stone wall. From the shadow came a voice. “I was expecting you, child.” I began to tremble fiercely. “Fear not,” he said, and his voice was so warm and kindly, I was drawn to it like the iron filings I once saw pulled to a magnet in a demonstration by Ruggieri.

  When I entered the observatory, the doctor, for indeed he is a physician, as I soon learned, was standing beside a tripod that held a brass bowl. I walked directly to it and saw my reflection in the water it held. “What do you see?” he asked.

  “My own reflection,” I replied. I peered harder, then suddenly tore off my muffin cap. Tendrils of my hair fanned out around my face.

  “And now?” he asked.

  “Fire. Not blood,” I said, and I looked into those eyes of his that held the infinity of the sky.

  Francis had told me that Nostradamus gave his predictions in the form of the four-line verses we call quatrains. Now he spoke:

  Some speak of heaven’s dart,

  others the symmetry of the rose.

  Some of fire, some of blood,

  a life without repose.

  “What does it mean?” I asked.

  “There is no precise meaning,” he replied.

  “No real meaning?” I was astounded.

  “The meaning is real but not exact. People want everything to be exact. But trust me when I say that the inexact, the imprecise, is no less real than the exact and the precise.”

  “Then it could be blood that swirls around my head, or it could be the petals of a rose – perhaps the red rose of the House of Tudor, my English cousins Elizabeth, Mary, and Edward, their father, Henry VIII – or it could be fire?”

  “Yes. But there will be tumult, my dear. There will be chaos and confusion, and there will never be complete repose.”

  “But not necessarily blood.”

 
“Not necessarily.” He nodded and his eyes softened.

  I thought on all this for a minute, no more. Then I looked up into the kind face of this man. “That is good enough for me. I am a Queen. I expect to have some hand in making my own destiny, and that of my people of Scotland. And thus I do not expect repose.”

  “You are old beyond your years.”

  “I have been Queen since I was but nine months old. I have been separated from my mother since I was five, betrothed to a lovely but weak boy since I was four. I have been the cuckoo bird in a very strange nest. Yes, it does make one old beyond one’s years.”

  And I turned and left the good man. Left him to his tripod and his bowl of water with its reflections of clouds and stars and red-haired girls who were Queens before their time. I threaded my way back through the tunnels, and indeed my candle did gutter out and I was left in total darkness. I felt myself absorbed into the night. I heard the scutterings of running rats and I might have even heard the tap tap of those high-heeled shoes of the merchant’s daughter, but I was not fearful for I am a Queen, a true Queen. I ripped off my servant’s muffin cap and let my hair stream out like rays of sun.

  January 26, 1554

  I waited until today to tell the four Marys of my visit. They were stunned. “You went there by yourself?” Mary Beaton gasped.

  “What did he say?” asked Mary Fleming, her delicate face beautiful and quivering like a small flower in a summer breeze. So I told the Marys all about it. They remained silent for a long moment. Then Mary Beaton dropped on one knee. “Your Majesty, your courage inspires us. I vow that I shall remain by your side whatever the tumult, wherever fortunes good or ill take you, and mostly, although I know you do not like talk of marriage, I vow never to marry before you.”

  “Aye… Aye… Aye.” There was a soft chorus of ayes, and the three other Marys dropped to their knees and vowed as well to follow me through tumult and repose and never to marry until I have so done. Did any person have a luckier charm than these four steadfast friends? They are my clover leaf for eternity.

  January 27, 1554

  We leave for Chambord tomorrow. I must finish my Greek translation of the Anacreon poems for Ronsard. Then I am to try my own hand at writing one in the same metre. I am looking forward to going to Chambord. Francis is beside himself, so excited is he to see once more his favourite horses. The only problem is that it is so complicated whenever the court moves to a different château. There is much packing up to do, and now that I have my own household I must confer with my maître d’hôtel, Monsieur Jallet, for hours over what seems like a thousand and one details. We need additional carriages now that we are an independent household, for our servants must ride separately. Some of course ride on horseback, but Rufflets and Monsieur Jallet need their own conveyances. I think they might ride together in one. We also need to provide for an assistant for Madame Moillard, the seamstress. So many new gowns have been ordered for me that she cannot take on all the work in addition to her duties for Queen Catherine. Monsieur Jallet proposed that the assistant ride with the chambermaids, but I don’t think this is appropriate. I think women of stitchery believe themselves to be superior to women of the bedchamber, and this could cause problems. Madame de Parois has demanded her own carriage. Simply ridiculous! There is so much to think about, and all I want to do at this moment is please Ronsard with my translation. I think I shall invite him to ride in my carriage with me to Chambord. Unfortunately, Diane de Poitiers has gone back to Anet for a while. I hope she comes to Chambord for there is such fun to be had there – the hunting and hawking, and there is talk of a very grand ball.

  February 1, 1554

  Château Chambord

  Arrived last night at twilight. It is the best time to first glimpse Chambord. The entire roof of Chambord can be seen from miles away and almost seems like a chessboard with its countless spires and chimneys that stand like chess pieces bristling against the sky. We have – Francis, Claude and Elizabeth, the four Marys, and myself – tried to count the chimneys. Every time we come up with a different number, but there are well over three hundred, of that we are sure. Chambord is like a world within another world. It is hard to believe that contained within the more than twenty miles of walls there is an immense forest park. The château stands in the centre, but the thickets and glades are astir with wolves and wild boar and stag. It is a hunter’s paradise. Before dawn one hears the sound of the horns summoning the dogs into the courtyards. Each blast on the horn is a specific signal for the dogs. Of course, Francis likes best to hunt with his falcons and hawks. He keeps a dozen or more here. There is only one problem. Queen Catherine forbids us to hunt tomorrow. It is Candlemas Day, the celebration of the purification of the Virgin Mary, and the day must be spent in devotion. Then there is the Candlemas feast in the evening. Indeed we must begin a fast tonight. I do not think I would object so much if Queen Catherine’s form of religion did not seem to me so inconstant. Father Confessor Mamerot despairs over her reliance on sorcerers and seers such as Ruggieri and Nostradamus. He once said to me in an unguarded moment that the Queen, as he put it, “rejects the divine truths of scriptural revelations but believes in these soothsayers and starry messengers.” Thus no hunting tomorrow and Francis is very upset. He whines like a baby.

  February 2, 1554

  Mary Beaton pounced on my bed this morning and shook me. “Up, up! We must get out of doors right now.”

  “Why?”

  “Mary Stuart!” All four Marys gathered round my bed. Now Mary Livingston raised her voice. “Have you forgotten our dear Scotland? It is not all prayers this Candlemas Day and going about with candles.”

  I smacked my forehead with the sudden realization. Indeed I had forgotten. “Quick, Minette, dress me.” Minette came rushing in with my partlets and hoops and corset. Oh, my goodness, I thought. So many layers to put on. I needed to be quick. I remembered the night I visited Nostradamus. How free my body felt in Minette’s clothes without all those underpinnings of partlets and corsets. “Minette, I shall not need my corsets or partlets. Yes, and I think I’ll not wear a kirtle. Just my chemise and overdress and those heavy, thick stockings.”

  A silence filled the room. Minette stood with her mouth open. The four Marys looked as if I had gone mad.

  “Have you taken leave of your senses?” Mary Seton gasped.

  “Of course not, but do you want to get out to the courtyard or not? The sun waits for no one – not even the Queen of the Scots!” I replied.

  They all giggled, and quick as a pig dipped in lard I was in my clothes. We roared out of our apartments, which are in the lantern tower. Mary Beaton was singing in Gaelic at the top of her lungs an ancient song sung by old Highland chieftains:

  Edward Longshanks, Edward Longshanks,

  You come to claim our kin.

  Our fair land, our fairer folk

  You come to slay again.

  But Braveheart will cut you down

  And save our children dear

  And banish bloody English troops

  For he does not know fear.

  We passed Madame de Parois on the grand double staircase. A look of horror scored her face. “Savages!” she muttered and pressed herself against the ballustrade.

  Out in the courtyard we danced about, looking for our shadows and chanting the Scottish rhyme:

  If Candlemas Day is bright and clear

  There’ll be two winters in the year.

  And then Mary Livingston made up another verse:

  And if you see your shadow now

  There’ll be snow on your favourite cow.

  Janet Sinclair came down and joined us in the courtyard. “Girls, girls! Oh, shadows!” she exclaimed as she saw our dancing ones on the cobbles. “Spring will be here soon!” She joined in our fun and laughed at our antics. But then the dread words: “You must go up now and bathe, girls
.” We all groaned. “This is the day of the purification of the Virgin. I shan’t hear of you not bathing. It has been since Saint Stephen’s Day six weeks ago that you had your last bath. Now, go for the honour of the Blessed Virgin.”

  Later

  After midnight. We fell to the food on the banquet table like ravenous wolves, after fasting all day. Mary Fleming nearly fainted when we walked in procession through the chapel with our lighted candles. That is the custom. This is the part of Candlemas Day I love the most. I wore a dress embroidered all over with silver and pink and violet threads and tiny pearls formed into roses and jasmine and marguerites. To wear the dress was like walking in a garden. On my ears were the double-drop pearl and diamond earrings given to me by my grandmother de Guise. My coif was a masterpiece of whitework embroidery – white linen thread on a white background. I did not want it to glint or shimmer or be studded with jewels. I felt that my headdress should appear humble and most simple, for if the Virgin Mary does look down on me she should not be blinded by the flash of jewels. I come to her humbly with the light of my taper and a bowed head. Queen Catherine and several other women of the court wore their usual court makeup. Some of the Marys tried the whitening pastes for the first time for the banquet afterward, but I came in my own skin and the tint of my own blood and the scroll of the faint blue vein that runs near my temple.