February 3, 1554
Hardly time to write. Francis stamps about impatiently in my receiving salon while I dress in my chamber. We must rush on to see the horses and the dear falcons.
Later
Too tired to write. Hunted and hawked all day. Then went to the archery field and practised with the larger bows under the instructions of my Scots guardsmen. It is known that the Scots are the best archers. I have been advanced to a larger and heavier bow. Robin MacClean, the head guard, praised me and said that he never saw anyone take to this bow faster. Robin is an excellent teacher. He is a big ruddy fellow with the keenest blue eyes and the burr of the Highlands in his voice. I do feel a little bit bad, for Francis is still on the lighter bow. But the fact is I am a good several inches taller than Francis and such a long bow would be most awkward for him. I do wish Francis would grow! Surely he will grow by the time we marry. He is so short that we would look quite silly as a bride and groom standing in front of the priest exchanging our sacred vows. He barely reaches my shoulder now.
February 4, 1554
We went hawking again this afternoon but first we had to have lessons. And unfortunately, we had to rehearse that stupid ballet. Queen Catherine watched it all and interjected her comments. “Children, you must do as Monsieur Balthazar says.” Then she said very grandly, “This is the vocabulary of ballet.” And she demonstrated often herself, pointing that plump little foot, holding up that arm with its sagging flesh, and fixing me with her beady eyes as if to challenge me to refuse her direction.
I would rather translate a thousand lines of Latin with my Latin master, George Buchanan, hanging over my shoulder, whose breath always stinks of ale, than do five seconds of that stupid dance. Monsieur Balthazar insists that we turn out our legs in a manner for which our anatomy was not designed. He has these ridiculous positions for us to practise. There is first position, second position, and so forth. They are excruciatingly difficult and between all the riding I am doing, in addition to the ballet nonsense, my legs feel like forks with the tines pulled apart. I won’t give up the riding. And I do not understand why, if I am Queen of Scotland and have my own household and my own treasury from which to buy whatever I want, I have to stand in first position looking like a duck with splayed feet. This is all very Italian. It all came from Florence.
February 5, 1554
I am so excited – no lessons today. Just hunting. The four Marys and I have decided to wear our Scots dress. Oh, we do look savage. The King loves it. The air here at Chambord does something to us.
February 6, 1554
The uncles have arrived. My uncle Francis, le Balafré, talks too much about marriage. And they all inquire incessantly about Francis’s health. I can tell them only what I know. I do know that Nostradamus has recommended that Francis take rose pills that are made from the crushed petals of roses and drink lots of rose tea. He says it will protect him from his frequent colds and earaches. And it might be working. Francis’s nose, which runs perpetually, seems to have dried up in recent days. I know why my uncles inquire. They fear that Francis might die before we are married and that I shall never have a chance to become Queen of France as well as of Scotland. I suppose it is a problem, but I myself would miss Francis as a friend more than as a husband. I cannot say this to my uncles, and I cannot ask them to stop speaking of marriage. It is amazing the seemingly simple things a Queen is not permitted to do. Sometimes I muse that a plain serving girl like Minette has more freedom than I do. I know she has a suitor – Marcel, a groomsman. And Mary Livingston and Mary Beaton, who seem to know about such things, feel that Minette and Marcel have done a lot of kissing – a lot! They have seen the mark on her neck. Apparently if one kisses another very hard, it leaves a bluish mark on the skin. It is called la marque.
February 7, 1554
Spent the morning trying on gowns for tomorrow’s ball. An old one I had outgrown is now perfect for Mary Fleming. There is one lovely brocade that no longer fits, and I think I shall give it to the abbess of the nearby convent to make curtains for the chancel, as she so appreciated a bolt of cloth that I donated last year.
Later
Madame de Parois has been in a most foul humour ever since we have arrived at Chambord. At first I thought it was just our wildness, the way the four Marys and I were tearing about in our Scottish costumes and babbling away in Gaelic, which does sound rough in the throat compared with French. But this afternoon she became absolutely nasty – a scowl etched on her face, snapping at everyone. She even tried to kick little Thimble out of the way. I scooped up Thimble, who was quivering with fear, and I just burst out, “Madame, what is it in you that delights in kicking a dog that weighs no more than a cabbage?”
Madame de Parois then looked over at the dress that I plan to give to the abbess. “I see,” she said, “that you are afraid of my enriching myself in your service. It is plain you intend to keep me poor.”
“That is not my intention at all, Madame. But why should the church not benefit from this brocade, and Mary Fleming is the perfect size for this other gown of mine. I am sorry this inconveniences you.”
February 8, 1554
Ronsard promises he will join me tonight in a pavane. The four Marys and Princess Elizabeth and I are planning to spend this afternoon practising with cosmetics. Minette and Dora, another chambermaid, will bring the lacquer boxes with the powders and pastes to my boudoir. We all need some whitening, for our skin has become tinted with riding and hawking and spending so much time outdoors. Veils never stay on when one rides as hard as we do.
Later
What an amusement it has been. The lacquer boxes contain delicate porcelain pots filled with various pastes and powders and creams. We have with Dora’s and Minette’s help spread a thin layer of the ceruse all over our faces and bosoms. My freckles, which lay in an unseemly band across my nose, are gone! Dora then showed us how to dip a fluffy brush into a small pot of madder. One shakes the brush twice, then dips it into a pot of vermilion. In this way two colours are blended – an ochre and a deep red – and it makes a lovely light blush that we touch onto our cheeks. Mary Livingston has an unsightly spot in the middle of her chin, but Dora mixed an extra thick paste and now it is as gone as my freckles. Then we painted on lip colour.
I think I am going to look very lovely for the ball. I plan to wear the gown that is laced with ribbons of silver. The sleeves are of quilted satin, and I shall carry a feather fan.
February 10, 1554
Disaster – the ball was an utter disaster. I am just now recovering. I bless Doctor Nostradamus. Had it not been for him I do not know what would have happened. I shall try to describe the horrifying event. The first dance as usual was a bransle. Francis and I began the first series of kicks – kick left, kick right. By the end of four kicks, I began to feel a slight prickling sensation on my face. I paid it no heed. But by the end of the dance, I felt a numbness beginning near my jawline. I touched my face lightly for I did not want to disturb the makeup. I felt fine. So I joined another set of dances. By the end of the second set, half of my face felt completely numb, and although numb, my lips and nose felt as if they were hugely fat. I dragged Mary Livingston off to the side. “Is my lip swollen?” I asked.
“What are you talking about?”
I told her that I was having the strangest sensation in my face.
At that moment Monsieur Ronsard walked up. “The pavane?” he said, reminding me of our promised dance together.
“Oh, certainly,” I replied, putting the business of my face out of my head. Or so I thought. For to dance with a poet like Ronsard is heaven. His rhythms are so natural even the clumsiest dancer in the world would improve by dancing with him. We had danced one round of the old Carolingian pavane and were just beginning the second when suddenly Ronsard stopped. “Your Majesty?” His voice was filled with alarm. At that moment I felt as if my fa
ce had – it sounds so strange – floated away from my head. It was indeed a disembodied thing. “Milady, your face!” The next thing I knew I was on the floor. People were bending over me saying the strangest things.
“It has swollen to the size of a melon!”
“She is as red as a strawberry!”
“Look, her eyes are locked.” And indeed it did feel as if my eyes had frozen in their sockets, for I could not blink. A footman carried me to my chambers and the King’s physician was called, as was Ruggieri. It was not long before I heard the word I dreaded. “Leeches.”
“No! No! No!” I screamed. Janet Sinclair rushed to my side to calm me. As much as I love Janet, I really wanted my mother.
“You must have them, my dear. You have had a bad reaction to the face whitening. It can happen sometimes. The leeches must be brought to suck out the poison.”
Just then the royal apothecary arrived with two immense jars, the insides of which were a writhing slime of black leeches. I could not even shut my eyes for my eyelids were still frozen open. With long tweezers Ruggieri and the King’s doctor, de la Romaniére, placed the leeches one by one on my face and neck and chest. My face being numb I could not exactly feel them sucking but I fancy that I heard them. I thought I would go mad. I wished my own doctor, Doctor Bourgoing, were here, but he is gone temporarily. He would never have put leeches on me. All night my face remained under this blanket of leeches. I somehow managed to sleep with my eyes open because they had dosed me with a strong spirit. By morning I was really no better, but I saw thin threads of blood trickling down my chest where the leeches had gorged and been pulled from my skin.
Suddenly Nostradamus burst into the room with Lord Erskine at his side. “Get those foul things off her!” he roared. He came to my bedside and began pulling off the leeches. Next he dipped a sponge into a bowl that Lord Erskine held. He began wiping my face. There was a strong scent of cloves. Then with his fingertips he began massaging my face. He called for “ointment of calamus”, which he next put on thickly, and then he folded a hot wet cloth, also soaked in the same palm-scented lotion, and placed it on my face. Gradually the numbness began to leave. He applied more lotions and ointments.
Then little Mary Fleming with tears streaming down her face cried out, “Mary, you are back!”
I tried pressing my lips together and then making a slight smile. They felt normal. “Might I see a mirror?” I asked. Lord Erskine brought me a mirror. I looked at my reflection. Never have I been so happy to see that band of freckles across my nose. I looked deathly pale with blue shadows under my eyes, but my face was my face once more.
Nostradamus sank into a chair. “A toxic beauty they all strive for.”
I turned my head to him. “You mean the whitening.”
“Precisely, my dear. You were lucky. You found out quickly how poisonous it was to you. But the ceruse made of vinegar and white lead builds up over years and years until finally a woman dies from her own reserve of poison slowly administered over a lifetime of seeking beauty. Her fingernails turn blue. She loses feeling in her fingertips and toes and earlobes, but she is beset by the sensation of fiery ants eating into her skull. Finally the poison creeps into the muscles of the throat and paralyses them. She cannot swallow to eat and then soon she cannot breathe.”
What a terrible, terrible death I have been spared. I shall forbid the four Marys ever to use the whitening again. I know I am lucky, but still to be so sick and so far away from my mother leaves me with another kind of pain that is so deep.
February 11, 1554
I’ve managed to be excused from many ballet practices. It was almost worth having leeches on my face. But I think I would endure leeches again if I could have my mother with me, my mother’s hand in mine.
February 12, 1554
How shall I ever thank Doctor Nostradamus? I cannot think of a way. The four Marys came to visit me today, and so did Francis. I am allowed to play only quiet games. Francis and I were playing chess, and he said the strangest things as we moved our pieces on the board. He said that his mother and father are talking about an alliance between France and Spain and are looking to the Duke of Castille for either Princess Elizabeth or Princess Claude. Francis picked up a pawn and said to me, “Did it ever strike you, Mary, that we are not so much children and sons and daughters of parents as we are pieces on a gigantic chessboard called Europe? You are given to me to help checkmate England.”
Francis’s words struck me so deeply that I picked up a pawn and looked at it. Thinking aloud, I whispered softly, “But I am a Queen.”
Then Francis said, “And I am the Dauphin and what does it all mean?”
February 13, 1554
I am feeling much better, but everyone insists that I stay abed. This is so vexing, because the weather is fine, the sun shines, and the four Marys and Francis go out hawking and riding every day. Little Princess Claude comes to visit and reads to me, as my eyes are still not quite right. But my eyes would be fine for riding. I am terribly bored.
February 15, 1554
We are leaving for Chenonceau. My timing is good. I recovered just in time to go on the last hunt and yet miss the last ballet practice. It has turned very cold.
February 17, 1554
“The river is frozen!” Mary Beaton cried, leaning out from our carriage as we drove up to the château. Chenonceau spans the river Cher. It rises from the water. Indeed the oldest part of the château was originally a water mill. But much has been done to it. King Henry gave it as a gift to Diane de Poitiers many years ago, and she has made it even more beautiful. But the part that we children love the most is the bridge that connects the château to the opposite side of the riverbank. When the river is frozen, it is so much fun to skate under the bridge and in and around the pilings. We play tag and hide-and-seek on skates. But one must be very careful near the stone pilings for oftentimes the ice is not solid there and one could fall through.
February 18, 1554
Naturally our plans for skating were squashed because Queen Catherine insists on one last practice of the ballet, which we are to give tonight. But then, thank heavens, we shall be done with this fool thing.
Madame de Parois has received a diagnosis of dropsy, an affliction that causes one to swell up. Mary Fleming dared a peek at her legs. She pretended to drop something under the card table when we were playing, and she said Madame de Parois had her stockings rolled down and her dress hitched up and that her legs looked like tree trunks. No ankles to speak of. Now I feel very bad for her. I have sought out Father Confessor and have told him of my regret in thinking such – well, not evil, but unkind – thoughts about Madame de Parois. I cannot make formal confession for I have not yet made my First Communion. Father Mamerot and my uncle the Cardinal will decide when that will happen. I am anxious, of course, but I know I am not ready. For in truth, in regard to Madame de Parois, I ask myself, if her legs went back to normal, if she did not have the dropsy, would I really try to improve my behaviour? Probably not. I therefore do not think I am ready for my First Communion. The woman does vex me so, fat legs or not. I wish I had more patience with her. I wish I could ignore her often beastly ways. But I can’t. I suppose this is a character flaw within me. I have discussed all this with Father Confessor. I am not sure if saying a thousand rosaries would help me. In any case, Doctor de la Romaniére, the King’s physician, has sent her to Paris. She will be more comfortable there, and she has a sister who can help care for her.
February 19, 1554
The ballet is over. I did quite well for missing so many practices when I was sick. Diane de Poitiers clapped loudly. The Queen looked quite pleased. She had made up many of the steps and the King was very enthusiastic, clapping harder than anyone else. His sister Marguerite de Valois was also in attendance, and she and the King both praised Queen Catherine. I must say the Queen did seem to shine and was as close
as she can ever get to beauty and resplendence. There is a rumour that she is expecting again. She is always most happy when she is with child. That is why I suppose she is with child so often – at least seven times since I have come to live here – once with twins but they died as infants. I think it is the one thing that she knows she can do for the King that Diane cannot. Diane is too old to have babies, but she is not too old to be beautiful. But the King paid most attention to the Queen. I think that is how it should be, even though I don’t like the Queen very much. In public I believe he should pay the most attention to the Queen. The four Marys and I discuss this endlessly.
February 20, 1554
Skating today. Lovely ice. Of course twenty footmen and another dozen or so servants had been scraping it and making it perfect for us children. Even with perfect ice Francis had a terrible time. He is so awkward on anything but a horse. The blacksmith from the stables made some tiny blades for the shoes of little Henry and Charles. Mary Seton and I skate around with the babes between our legs. The little boys are quite wobbly. I think it will be awhile before they are sturdy enough to skate on their own. Puff enjoys the ice very much. She skitters about and then has this trick of skidding on her belly. Thimble is simply too little to bring out in this cold.
Mary Queen of Scots Page 5