Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (24 page)

"I am strong enough to hear it, whatever it may prove to be." Her
voice was calm and steady.

Still he hesitated, smiling weakly.

"In fact, I command you to tell me."

She was his sovereign, and he could not disobey her. "Very well, then.
The news is simple: It is over. The rebels have triumphed, and even
now Cecil, as the English representative, is in Edinburgh to negotiate
a treaty with the French, on behalf of the rebels. A withdrawal
treaty." He saw the shock on her face. "The Auld Alliance is no more.
There will be no more French in Scotland, and no Catholics. We are
finished there."

"We?"

"The French. You are still Queen there, but in name only. In reality
your bastard brother James Stewart rules on behalf of the Protestants
and behind him, the English Queen pulls the strings and controls her
new vassal Protestant kingdom."

Mary's mouth formed a perfect oval of speechlessness.

Well, she demanded to be told, he thought, with a fierce feeling of
vindication.

"A committee of Parliament ratified these changes. And Master Knox was
called upon to write a confession of faith for the newly devout Scots.
He hammered it out in four days."

EIGHTEEN

Mary Stuart sat on a small bench in the newly fashioned garden at )
Chenonceau, watching the gardeners at work. The tawny autumn i day
seemed to bathe everything in a golden light and grace that made her
heart rise in spite of herself.

She had hardly noticed the past summer the heavy bouquets of
gillyflowers, cornflowers, and daisies, the dancing patterned
butterflies, the languorous white twilights that stretched on until ten
o'clock. Who could be lifted or touched by them, when all they did was
adorn the rocks of existence without altering them? Her mother was
dead, her kingdom taken over by heretics. Even her mother's body was
not allowed to leave Scotland and return to France for burial, but was
being kept like a hostage by the Lords of the Congregation. A hostage
for what? Had they no compassion, even on the dead? She shivered in
the friendly warm sunshine of France.

I will bring you home, Mother, she promised. You will rest in
France.

"Bonjour, Your Most Exalted Majesty," said a gardener coming to join
his fellows.

She smiled at him and nodded. It was just now beginning to feel
natural to her to be hailed as Queen of France. During the first year
she had felt awkward in the title, as if she were merely awaiting the
arrival of Queen Catherine. And when they called Francois "Your
Majesty" and "King of France," that was even odder. She could not
banish the image of Henri II from her mind, and expected him to step
forth from behind a pillar when the title was called, laughing at what
a joke he had played on them all.

But he would be shocked to ride up to Chenonceau today and find his
beloved Diane gone, sent to another chateau, and to see what Queen
Catherine had done here: laid out her own rival gardens on another side
of the chateau. It was these the gardeners were working so hard upon.
Although the Catherine gardens did not could not have the tall trees or
the sculpted shrubs of the older garden, they boasted the latest
fashion from Italy: statues and fountains and canals. In time, there
would be trees as well; and Catherine, who knew so well how to wait,
whose motto was Odiate et aspetate "hate and wait" did not mind.

In the meantime, there were these elegant parterres to enjoy, the
elaborate flat geometrical designs combining coloured pebbles and
flowers; the reflection of the sky and clouds in the still waters of
the canals; and all of it seen against the tranquil whiteness of the
gracious chateau lying athwart the River Cher. Catherine did not need
to share it with anyone, save King Francois. She had given a fete to
welcome him and his bride here, with fireworks lacing the sky and
reflecting in the Cher.

Mary saw her mother-in-law approaching, her blocky body making its way
purposefully along one of the canal paths. She rose to meet her, and
they walked together, their shadows falling before them in the
midafternoon as they turned their backs to the sun. Mary's was long
and thin and Catherine's short and square; her head barely came up to
Mary's shoulder. Mary bent slightly, the better to hear her
mother-in-law's low monotone as they strolled. All along the path the
royal gardeners nodded and stopped their work as the two queens passed.
In the geometrical beds, flowers of enamel hues made carefully laid-out
patterns: indigo irises, white alyssum, crimson carnations, deep yellow
marigolds.

Catherine made innocuous comments about the flower beds and the
heraldry before murmuring, "So you and His Majesty" she liked using the
title "will refuse to ratify the Treaty of Edinburgh?"

"We shall not refuse, but merely not sign," Mary said. Her uncles had
advised her, but there had been no need of that. She could not, would
not, put her signature to a document abjuring her right to the throne
of England. It was impossible. How could a signature render null what
was true? She was descended from Henry VII, and her legitimacy was un
impugned She was prepared to recognize Elizabeth as de facto queen,
but her uncles had pointed out that the treaty did not differentiate
between de facto and de jure. And the provision "now and in all times
to come" meant that she could not succeed, even if Elizabeth died
childless.

The Treaty of Edinburgh had been a sickening defeat in Scotland, and
she had literally been made sick over it. John Knox and his rebels had
hounded her mother to death, until she had died of a broken heart and
left them in complete control. The Treaty of Edinburgh, rejecting
France and Catholicism, was the result. No, she would not ratify it!

They were approaching the fontoine de roche, a masterpiece of
Palissy's, the great garden designer. Catherine smiled as she came
within earshot of its gurgling waters.

"The English will press you," she said.

"Let them!" replied Mary, with a toss of her head. "They do not own
Scotland, however much they like to think they do."

"They supported the rebels," Catherine said quietly. "They owned
them."

"They may think they own them. But rebels are by definition traitors.
And if they will not keep faith where it is due to their own regent
they are not like to keep it where it is not due. To them, Elizabeth
is just a money-bag, to be used as it suits them."

"Perhaps soon they will recognize her as Queen of Scotland. I know
there has been a secret proposal to marry the Earl of Arran the young
heir of the House of Hamilton to Elizabeth. The Lords of the
Congregation have sent an offer in his name. What could suit them
better? A Protestant pair of sovereigns, to rule over their freshly
whitewashed country." Her voice, always low, now sounded almost
guttural.

Mary had heard this also; her uncles had reported it. "Elizabeth will
not marry him," she heard herself saying. Somehow she knew that. "And
then they will turn back to us, to me and Franqois. But until then
..." Until then, there would be chaos in Scotland the chaos that came
from having no captain at the helm.

"I just pray they are not ready to proclaim a what have they called it
in Geneva? a 'city of God," " said Catherine. "Perhaps you and the
King must needs journey to Scotland to secure their loyalty." I can
manage things here well enough, she thought.

"You know Frangois cannot travel," said his wife reproachfully.

"The journey might strengthen him."

"It killed his aunt Madeleine. No, I shall never permit him to
endanger his life!"

The sound of the hydraulic fountain engineered by Palissy forced them
to raise their voices. A great artificial mountain reared up in the
middle of the crossing of two water canals, and from its sides gushed
streams of water, which tumbled, foaming, into a collecting basin at
its foot.

Catherine never tired of admiring it, and Mary loved the faience
reptiles crawling about the basin shiny green frogs, glistening
crocodiles, and striped vipers coiled on dry rocks, waiting to
strike.

The sound of the rushing water drowned out Frangois's voice as he
called to them. Only the movement of his waving arms finally caught
their eyes. He ran in awkward, loping steps down the manicured gravel
path, the buckles on his shoes catching the sun. He was an etiolated
version of himself a year ago on his accession, for he had shot up like
a plant searching for the sun; and like such a plant, he was pale and
spindly.

"Maman!" he cried. "Marie!" They stopped and waited for him.

"The Huguenots," he gasped. "I have here a report that that "

Catherine snatched away the paper. "They are making trouble again.
There's only one way to deal with them stamp them out, like the
venomous serpents they are! Pretend to kindness, to conciliation, then
destroy them!"

Francois stood looking forlornly from his mother to his wife. "But if
I gave my royal word, how could I betray it?"

"Yes," said Mary. "That would be unspeakable." She looked boldly back
at Catherine. "Just what are you suggesting?"

The older woman shrugged. "Nothing in particular," she finally said.
"But you must not be so dainty and honourable, if you hope to reign
well."

But I always believed that a good heart is the best quality for a
ruler, Mary thought. Mercy, and honesty the core that cannot betray or
shrink from the truth. To be to all your subjects as you are to
yourself.

She reached down and fingered her long rope of black pearls a wedding
gift from Catherine. She saw Catherine looking at her critically.
Catherine was slowly becoming more and more bold; she, too, was
emerging from the shadow of the late King. And it was no secret that
she and the Guises were diametrically opposed to one another in
policy.

They all wish to rule France, thought Mary with a cold, nasty jolt of
realization. They think Francois and I are still children, obedient
little children, who will follow directions their directions. Just as
the Lords of the Congregation in Scotland think they can issue orders
to the child sovereigns.. ..

"There has been too much deceit and blind following of Machiavelli's
advice," Mary finally said. "I will not go in that way; and by and by,
the people will come to trust me and know that the word of a prince is
to be honoured, on both sides."

"Dreamer!" said Catherine.

Mary saw the look of distaste on her face, and suddenly she longed to
be away, where the eyes of her mother-in-law and her uncles were not
continually fastened on her, studying her, judging her.. .. She longed
to be away already on the autumn hunting trip with Francois, Francois
who was entirely her friend and never, never judged, nor wanted her to
be anything other than she was.

tOl

NINETEEN

In the late autumn the French court had moved to Orleans, where the
surrounding Forest des Loges, of oak, hornbeam, and pine woods bro-i
ken up by heather moors, gave good game and bird hunting. Francois
adored hunting: he had inherited this love directly from his namesake,
Francois I. As with his grandfather, at times the desire for hunting
bordered on obsession for him. He would rather hunt than study, than
eat, than take any other sort of exercise; more ominously, would rather
hunt than attend to business, even though there was pressing business
in the kingdom.