Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (9 page)

And now he could see the great boulder for so it looked from a distance
of Dumbarton from out of the porthole frame. A tiny castle was
visible, clinging to the top.

She's waiting up there, he thought. That misguided little child,
steeped in the abominations of Popery. And next to be dipped, like
Achilles in the River Styx, in the river of frivolity and falsehood
that is France: to the ruin of her character and the misdirection of
her education.

Scotland must not be served so. No, she must not, he thought.

The moment of parting had come. In all the excitement in the hasty
French lessons, and the selection of Shetland ponies as gifts for the
French royal children, in the clothes-fittings and farewell banquets
five-year-old Mary had not realized that her mother would not be coming
with her.

They had never before been separated. And now, with the wind whipping
and snapping the pennants on the ships, with the waters of the Firth
jumping in the sunlight, with the large number of lords and ladies
assembled for the boarding, she suddenly felt sick. She clung to her
mother.

"I cannot leave you," she said, her eyes filling with tears. "I
cannot, I cannot!"

Marie de Guise, tears choking her own throat, begged the Virgin for the
strength to hide her distress. "My dearest child, do not cry. I will
follow as soon as I may," she said. "There is yet business to attend
to here. When I have secured your kingdom, when I have made sure no
one will ever take Scotland from you, my darling, then I will come to
France."

"Will it be soon?"

"It depends how much of a fight the English put up!" She attempted to
joke. "Now, ma cherie, dry your eyes." She handed Mary a lace
handkerchief. "That's my fine girl."

She looked into her daughter's eyes, trying to memorize them, to hold
that look in some part of her mind where she could see it forever. "You
go to those who love you," she said. "The little Dauphin he is younger
than you, and not so strong. He longs for a playmate. You will seem
the answer to his prayers. And you will learn, my angel, that
fulfilling someone else's prayers is the same as having your own
fulfilled." She hugged her. "God keep you the Blessed Virgin hold
you."

Mary hugged her back, pressing up against her and shutting her eyes.

The onlookers cheered, and began to tease.

"La Reinette must come aboard her humble galley," said the nobleman who
represented Henri II. "France is eager to embrace you!"

Knox, peeping out of the porthole, could just see the small figure of
Mary in her blue velvet gown and its matching hat with a curling
feather. The fat cow of a Queen Mother was there also, he thought. And
all the grinning Frenchmen, like apes in satin. And the red-haired
brood of children half of them Stewart bastards going along as well.

Pfah! I hope they will all be seasick and soil their fancy selves all
the way to France! he thought, just as the overseer flicked him with
the lash to make him take his place at his station.

John Knox got his wish. All the members of the little Queen's
entourage were deathly ill with seasickness, for the winds were
tempestuous and the waters stormy almost all the way to France. Indeed,
Lady Fleming was so ill she begged the captain to put in at Cornwall
and let her go ashore; at which the Frenchman, Monsieur de
Villegaignon, made the ungallant response that she could go to France
by sea or drown on the way.

Only one member of the party was not sick: Mary herself. She seemed to
delight in the excitement of the gales, and in the crisis of the broken
rudder off the coast of Cornwall. Eagerly she clung to the ship's
railing without Lady Fleming there to supervise her and watched the
sailors straining to fit a replacement. Her brother James Stewart,
determined as usual to know everything that was going on, struggled up
on deck to watch for a few minutes. But the heaving decks soon made
him nauseated again and he staggered back to his cabin.

For several days the captain was unable to land along the western coast
of France, in Brittany. When finally he could put in, it was near the
little town of Roscoff, at a rocky spot in the heart of smugglers' and
pirates' territory.

Mary was eager to go ashore and the rowboats were readied; she was in
the first group to land. Fishermen and townsfolk, drawn by the sight
of the huge, battered galleys, had gathered on the shore and now stood
by to welcome them. Mary was helped out of the boat to take her first
step on French soil by a muscular Breton whose hands smelled offish. It
was August thirteenth, 1548.

At first she thought it looked no different from Dumbarton. It was the
same landscape of deep blue, vexed sea, and harsh rocks along the
coast.

But as the royal party went inland conducted ceremoniously by the Lord
of Rohan and the nobility of the district, who had hurried to meet them
the land suddenly began to look foreign, and Mary knew she had come to
a new and strange place.

As they passed through Normandy, the country became flat, green, and
well-watered, with many thatch-roofed farmhouses. There were apple
orchards and cows everywhere, and at dinners hosted by the local lords
en route, they were proudly served delicious, rich dishes made with
apples, butter, and cream: pancakes with Calvados; apple flans and
caramels. Even the omelets seemed magical, and not to have come from
the humble egg at all, they were so fluffy and light.

At length they reached the Seine, where a decorated barge awaited them,
sent by the King. They were to take it upriver to the Chateau of
St.-Germain-en-Laye, where the French royal children les enfants de
France would receive them.

The barge was wide and comfortably appointed with luxurious touches: a
fully staffed kitchen, a dining room with goblets and gold plates, beds
with gold leaf on the headboards, privy stool-closets hung with crimson
velvet and perfumed with fresh irises in a silver vase fastened to the
wall.

It was at this point that the Scots children began to feel
uncomfortable, being surrounded by a silvery-soft language they could
not understand, and realizing that in only a few days they would come,
face to face with the French children in the royal nursery. What if
they were horrid little things crying, whining brats who cheated at
games, tattled, and teased? Until that moment "the French children,"
"the Dauphin," and "the princesses" had had no real significance to
them.

And if the Dauphin and Mary did not like each other, what then? Would
the alliance be abandoned, or would they be forced to marry,
regardless?

Slowly the royal barge made its way up the Seine and its wide green
valley, past Rouen, past Les Andelys, past Vernon, past Meulan, and
then finally to the landing stage for St.-Germain-en-Laye. A large
pier, its posts painted in gold, red, and blue, flew the royal standard
of Valois from its staff.

An attendant hurriedly sent his assistant ahead to the chateau, and
arranged for horses to transport the guests, although the distance was
not great the chateau lay on the upper banks of the river. Big, sleek
beasts with heavy leather saddles were led forward, and the Scots
stared at them. They were so rounded and gleaming they did not seem
the same animals called "horses" in Scotland.

The gravel led path to the chateau was planted on both sides with tall,
slender trees, like a sacred grove in ancient Greece. And then,
looming before them, on a ridge above the river, was the grey building
of the chateau.

Servants and attendants now appeared to accompany them up the path and
into the courtyard. Their horses were taken and they were escorted
into the Salle des Fetes, a richly decorated hall on the west side of
the courtyard.

Mary looked all around her at the high ceiling and the light colours of
the wall decoration: pinks, pale aquas, yellows the shade of meadow
wild-flowers. The men and women in the paintings were wearing thin,
transparent clothes that allowed her to see through them as if they
were naked. She was studying this when suddenly a deep voice announced
something in French, and everyone was still.

The farthest door of the hall opened, and out came three children, two
girls and a boy. Only two could walk properly; the third swayed back
and forth on her baby feet and had to be helped by the others. They
came toward the Scots, and instinctively Mary went forward to meet
them.

Across the wide floor of the Salle des FStes, the children approached
each other, with everyone watching.

So this little boy must be Francois, the Dauphin, thought Mary. He had
a fat little face and slanted eyes, and his tight, curvaceous mouth was
clamped shut. The pale eyes were wary. He was very small, but
pudgy.

Immediately, Mary felt protective of him, as she did of the small
wounded animals that she had insisted on nursing back to health at
Stirling whenever she had found them lying injured on the heath or
limping about in the palace courtyard.

"Bonjour. Bienvenue a St. -Genruun-en-Lrye. Je suis Prince Francois,
et ces sont mes soeurs, ke Princesses Elisabeth et Claude." The little
boy bowed stiffly.

"Je suis Marie, votre amie et cousine et fiancee," responded Mary,
using almost all the French she knew.

Then, to the delight of all the onlookers, the two children smiled at
each other, laughed, and joined hands.

It was the first time many of the French courtiers had ever seen
Francois smile.

Although the King and Queen were not at St.-Germain at the time, they
had assured Mary, la Reinette d'Ecosse, of a proper welcome in the
person of Diane de Poitiers, the King's mistress. Indeed, when Mary
first beheld her coming into the saUe, she assumed she was looking at
the Queen, so beautiful was the Moon Mistress. Her hair was silver,
her skin pale, and her satins were a shimmery white and black. She
seemed to glide across the floor, like a faerie creature, and Francois
and Elisabeth greeted her as warmly as if she were their own mother.
Mary immediately gave the proper, prescribed respect to the woman as
Queen, only to have her smile and say, "No, no .. ." and then a string
of the unintelligible French followed.

Patrick Scott, a member of the company of Scottish archers at court,
hastily came to Mary and bowed. "May I offer my services as a
translator, Your Highness? The Duchesse de Valentinois, Madame de
Poitiers, thanks you for your kind greetings, and wishes you to know
that, as the honoured friend of the King, and in his name, she welcomes
you to France. The King hopes you will find all happiness here, as the
wife of his son, and among his people as their future queen. He longs
to see you, and will be coming soon from Italy, where he is
campaigning."

At this delightful game where one person spoke for another, Mary
giggled. Then Francois did, also, for it was the first time he had
ever heard the Scots language. The rest of the parties on both sides
joined in the laughter.

The Duchesse gestured, and palace servants took their stations and
stood by to show the Scottish guests to their quarters. She spoke, in
her pretty voice, and then Patrick Scott explained.