Mary Queen of Scots

by Kathryn Lasky

  We all agreed that we would then proceed as Mary Beaton had recommended. We shall try to trap Signore Marcellini.

  July 12, 1554

  Chambord

  We are back at Chambord. So far we have not had an opportunity to lay our trap. The next day after the Midsummer Eve, Signore Marcellini was summoned to Blois by Queen Catherine. Since we have once more settled in here at Chambord he has been seen little. We have had precious few music lessons. Of course, it is the height of summer and our activities are mainly out of doors.

  My old hawk Ruffles is ailing. It seems that after his last moult of feathers he contracted some illness. He has unsightly bare spots that we must dab with olive oil to soothe the irritation. Monsieur Gilbert, the hawk master in the mews, is hopeful that old Ruffles shall fly again. Francis is quite dear with Ruffles, bringing him tasty morsels from the kills of his own hawks. And not only that, but he also lets me fly his newest falcon, Sebastian. I think hawking is one of the things that Francis and I do well together. Our instincts combined with those of the birds seem to fit perfectly when we are in the field. We speak very little to each other but silently give the calls to the birds and perform our hand signals. This afternoon the two of us went out with only Robin MacClean as our guard. And I thought as I took a rest on the ridge of a hill that there was something of perfect harmony amongst the three of us and the birds we had brought to fly. If only all of life could be kept in the company of such good souls. But I am blessed with an abundance of good company, for do I not also have the four Marys?

  I considered telling Francis about the problem of Signore Marcellini. He would love to be in on the plot to entrap the foul creature, and I daresay he would put a good twist on it – come up with something quite imaginative. But I cannot tell Francis, for it could put him at risk. His mother is always snooping into his business, and he might be forced to say something to her, and then our plans would surely be dashed. The Queen is exceedingly fond of Signore Marcellini. Oh yes, the Queen is most definitely with child. It has been confirmed. The baby will come sometime in early spring. Little Princess Marguerite, who just turned one last May, is becoming the most engaging infant. She is full of charm and smiles and is always of a good nature, unlike little Henry. I cannot understand how the Queen can dote on that boy the way she does. Although he is only three, there is something devious about him.

  July 15, 1554

  René the Florentine has arrived and brought my perfume! It is perfect. And unlike the Queen I plan to share mine with the four Marys and not simply covet it. I dabbed some on a handkerchief and passed it amongst them, and they all grew misty-eyed. These four girls have come so far from their homeland for so long simply to be with me in my little court, how can I deprive them of this bit of Scotland?

  Michel Nostradamus has also arrived to do the astrological charts and predictions for Queen Catherine’s new babe.

  July 16, 1554

  It seems that all of Scotland is coming to me now. My bagpipers have at last arrived. I plan to give a petit bal to celebrate, and the four Marys and I shall wear our new perfume and new gowns. We are devising our trap for Signore Marcellini at the petit bal. We have a plan in which Mary Fleming will feign light-headedness and seek some fresh air on a private balcony. We shall already be outside, the four of us hidden behind the huge pots in which the lime trees grow. She plans to do this after the second gavotte – the Burgundian version of the dance requires much jumping about, so one might actually become faint.

  July 19, 1554

  The petit bal was a delight. But our trap did not work. I am wondering if Signore is suspicious. Maybe his encounter with Mary Beaton stopped him. I am not sure. We shall continue to watch for more opportunities.

  The bagpipers were excellent and Robin MacClean played with them. Signore Marcellini, of course, hated the music. Queen Catherine came for a brief time and arranged her face into a tense smile as they played. I could see that she did not like the music either. But King Henry loved it. He asked me if he might “borrow the pipers” to entertain the Spanish delegation that is expected shortly. There are more rumours that a match is to be arranged between Princess Elizabeth, or perhaps even Princess Claude, and a member of the Spanish royal family. I worry for them both, as we understand that the Spanish court is quite backward. They lack any refinements of the arts or culture that we enjoy here. Their courts are full of intrigue, and their bishops enjoy excessive amounts of power and are known to be cruel and harsh. It seems that the main business of Spain is the Inquisition and the rooting out of Jews. They devote themselves to this task almost exclusively. I do wonder what these envoys from the Spanish court will think of our court’s Jew, the astrologer Michel Nostradamus. Actually there are many Jews here in the court who fled Spain and now serve the King and Queen.

  July 24, 1554

  There is a flurry in the court. Rumours of a prophesy by Nostradamus have leaked out and it does not bode well. The expected baby is fine and a brilliant life is predicted. Nostradamus says it a boy. This, of course, makes the Queen very happy. But then people who are privy to the Queen’s innermost circle have reported that the Queen began to press Nostradamus further concerning other predictions, and now it is said that he has prophesied the early death of dear King Henry. It is an obscure quatrain, and I am not sure why it is necessarily interpreted as the death of Henry, but the verse has made its rounds through the court. It goes as follows:

  The young lion shall overcome the old one

  In martial field by a single duel

  In a cage of gold he shall put out his eye

  Two wounds from one, then he shall die a cruel death.

  The King is said to be mightily upset but not because of his death being predicted. He believes astrologers provide nothing but nonsense. I have heard him say so on many occasions, but he is most worried that it will disturb Queen Catherine and her pregnancy, which has been going so well. He has been most solicitous of the Queen. He did not even come to Anet for the Midsummer Eve ball of Diane de Poitiers, for he knew it would upset the Queen. I hope he doesn’t send Nostradamus away. We quite enjoy him. Mary Beaton and René the Florentine, Nostradamus, and myself have enjoyed several games of tennis in this fine weather.

  July 26, 1554

  I had the strangest sensation today when I returned to my apartments from riding. I had the feeling that someone had rearranged the things on my writing desk. Of course, I never leave my diary out. Indeed I hide it away in a locked box for which only I have the key. There are certain letters and papers from my mother also in this box.

  July 29, 1554

  I had the same feeling once more today. I have been thinking hard. Is it my imagination? Feelings, sensations like this are so slippery and yet they can drive you mad. I do not know how anyone could gain access to my apartments. Janet Sinclair has a receiving chamber just outside the apartments. She can see everyone who goes by. Minette, my chambermaid, is the only one with free entry, and she is about most of the time. When she is not tending to me directly, she is tending to my wardrobe, either sewing on buttons or making alterations. The dogs yap at the slightest intrusion, especially Thimble, who has somewhat of a nervous temperament.

  Later

  I disclosed to Mary Beaton my thoughts that my personal things, particularly on my writing desk, have been disturbed. This writing desk goes with me to each château. I am particularly fond of it, and although I keep my most personal correspondence in my locked box, I do have some papers in the drawers here. I explained all this to Mary. She thought for a moment, then suddenly plucked a hair from her head. “What in the name…” I caught myself, for I must not use the Lord’s name in vain. “What are you doing?” I asked as she began to thread the hair through the latch of one of the desk’s small compartments.

  “If the hair is broken,” she replied, “you will definitely know someone has been looking in these
small drawers and cubbies.” What a wonderful idea! Mary Beaton is so clever. It is truly regrettable that a female can never serve in the Privy Council of a Queen. Mary Beaton would have so much to offer.

  August 1, 1554

  Ha! The hair has been broken. Someone does tamper with my things. Now to catch the wrongdoer. Mary Beaton suggested that we leave something tantalizing that the person will want to have, some piece of information. Something that we could catch him or her with. I would not put it beyond Madame de Parois to tamper here. She is always so interested in how much the yardage and the embroideries for my gowns cost, and I am given copies of all such bills. But Mary Beaton says no, that the person would not risk the danger of being discovered for the sake of a few bills. There are easier ways to find out such things. I suppose she is right. I hope we are more successful in laying this trap than we were with the one for Signore Marcellini. He has made himself quite scarce of late, and Mary Fleming seems much happier. We go to Blois in a few days. The river is down, so it is not certain that we will be able to go by barge. If indeed we must move by carriages it will be very hot and dusty.

  August 7, 1554

  Blois

  That little brat Henry! He is growing more impossible every day. He pushed the darling Marguerite down a flight of steps and she cut her lip. Luckily Robin MacClean was right by and scooped up Marguerite and took her directly to the nursery. The doctor was called. But when Robin returned, he gave little Henry a good talking to. His Scottish burr crept into his French and thickened it. Little Henry, who is nearly four, screamed and called for his mama. “I am going to tell my mama on you. I shall be King someday and I shall put you in prison.” I stepped forward at that moment and said, “Henry, Francis shall be King and I shall be his Queen and I already am Queen of the Scots, and you must stop this blathering right now and apologize to Robin MacClean.” He ran off wailing.

  Robin MacClean winked at me and said, “Thank you, Milady. I fear it’s hopeless with that one.” I fear he is right, but it was almost worth it just for the wink. How my heart did melt. Of course, it was not worth it to have dear little Marguerite’s lip cut. But Marguerite is a plucky child. I really have no fears for her.

  August 9, 1554

  Mary Beaton and I were discussing how to catch the desk-rifler. I told Mary how my mother sometimes sends me false letters to give to my uncle Francis de Guise, because he is so nosy about our business. I swore her to absolute secrecy. Mary suggested that I take one of the recent false letters and place it in one of the drawers of the writing desk and see if the person takes it. I protested that surely the person would not take it for it would be noticed immediately. Mary said that of course I was right but that there still must be a way. We thought hard but could not come up with anything. If we could just catch the person doing it. “Perhaps,” I said, “we could put something on the paper that would…” I did not complete my thoughts.

  “That’s it,” Mary said. “Remember when we were playing tennis with Doctor Nostradamus and he was telling of the invisible powders?”

  “But, Mary,” I protested, “we need something visible. Some unmistakable sign that will leave traces and lead us to the culprit.”

  Mary jumped up from the plump cushions she sat on. “We don’t know what this might be, but surely Doctor Nostradamus might. We must consult with him immediately.”

  I think she is right about this, although I am not sure if Nostradamus will want to become involved. He serves at the favour of the Queen, not me. But I suppose there is no harm in asking.

  August 13, 1554

  We have sought out Nostradamus, and there is indeed a powder that he can make us. One dampens the paper just slightly with a sponge, not enough to make the ink run. Then the powder is sprinkled on. It immediately dissolves into the paper, and any hands that touch the paper will be streaked with purple in twenty-four to forty-eight hours. We must be careful to douse our own hands in a resinous juice he will give us that comes from Palestine and is called myrrh. This will protect our hands from the powder so they will not turn purple. So we are set to catch a snoop. Such people in my mind are of the same evil rank as hypocrites.

  August 15, 1554

  Mary Beaton and I have decided on the “bait”, which letters to put into the writing compartment. There is one from my mother that advises me on Lord Arran concerning his fines and punishments. It is precisely the sort of letter a spy might want to lay his hands on. It contains no significant information, which is why she wrote it as a cover for me to show Uncle Francis. The real letter was much more specific and told me whom to beware of in the court and who might be plotting for the benefit of Lord Arran. The second letter I shall use is from me to mother concerning Mary Fleming, in which I write that Mary seems less sad and withdrawn but that I do wish her mother could return to France.

  August 16, 1554

  The bait has been placed. We have threaded the hair through the latch. We wait.

  August 17, 1554

  The hair is still unbroken.

  August 18, 1554

  Still unbroken.

  August 19, 1554

  Broken! The two letters were replaced exactly as we had left them. Now we wait.

  I go for my final fitting for the gown I am to wear to the Pleiades ball. This is the liveliest ball of the season. It celebrates the seven greatest poets of France, known as la Pléiade. The ball is always held in late August for this is the time of the shooting stars, and it seems most fitting to have a grand celebration of these poets. They shall all be here, I think, except for perhaps Jean Antoine de Baif, who suffers from gout. It is an evening that shimmers with starlight and poetry. I plan to wear a white damask gown that is appliquéd with small seed pearls in the form of the constellation of the Pleiades. This was my own idea. At my throat I shall wear the star sapphire brooch given to me by my grandmama. On my head I plan to wear what we call a Scottish cap. It is made of white satin and worn at a tilt so it swoops low on one side. There is a rosette of ostrich feathers sewn on and around the edges are gold letters with my title in Latin, Mariae, Reginae, Scotorum. It is my most dazzling costume ever, my homage to the greatest poets in France and, most likely, Europe. I cannot wait for the ball. I have requested that the other four Marys not wear white, but, of course, we shall all wear the wonderful perfume that René devised for us.

  The ball is just two days away. I can hardly wait.

  August 20, 1554

  Twenty-four hours have passed but no one shows purple hands.

  August 21, 1554

  Forty-eight hours have passed. No, forty-nine, but no traces of purple. I begin to get ready for the ball. It is a lovely evening, but Mary Beaton and I wonder why the powders have not worked.

  August 23, 1554

  The powders worked! I take not the name of the Lord in vain when I say, My God, how shocked and frightened I was. I must now ask if it was worth it. Never would I have expected the events to unfold as they did and right at the ball at that. My exquisite dress ruined – stained with purple! My dear Mary Fleming’s face bruised with the same purple, the bodice of her dress and the top of her breasts hideously splotched purple, and that is not all! Let me directly as possible relay the events and then reveal the culprit.

  All four Marys and I had been at the ball for at least an hour or more. We had dined on fruit ices and sweet pastries that were cut into the shapes of stars. The poets delighted us with recitations. A quadrille had been called and then a gavotte, a Burgundian one. I did not notice, nor did any of us, really, although apparently Mary Fleming thought she had caught Mary Seton’s and Mary Livingston’s eye when she left the ballroom. There was another dance or two and then the Paduan pavane, a favourite of the Italians, as it comes from the city of Padua. Signore Marcellini had taught it to me and I thought nothing of his asking to be my partner. In the Paduan version of the pavane, the gent
leman places his right hand on the lady’s waist and spins her slowly clockwise and then anticlockwise before they proceed for sixteen counts side by side, with his hand still on her waist. We did this, and then when the dance was completed I curtsied to Signore Marcellini, as is the custom. He left.

  The next dance I was partnered with the poet Joachim Du Bellay. First of all, it must be understood that Du Bellay had arrived only that afternoon and secondly that the dance we did had no touching. We merely faced each other. At the finish as I dipped down in my curtsy I saw these odd streaks across the bodice of my dress. They were purple streaks! The hands that touched my waist had touched the letters! My partner in the last dance, the Paduan pavane, was the snoop, none other than Signore Marcellini!

  Just as these separate thoughts began to weave themselves into a web of horror, there was a tiny yelp, almost as if a dog had been stepped on. It was a cry from the balcony off the ballroom. I don’t think many others heard it, but I saw Mary Beaton’s face white with fury. I rushed to the balcony. Mary Beaton dragged me to the shadows where Mary Livingston and Mary Seton stood with their arms around Mary Fleming. Her face was bloodless except for the streaks of purple that slashed like saber marks across one cheek and down her neck to where her bodice had been torn and hung stained with purple. Her lips, too, were purple, making her mouth appear like a squashed blossom.