Mary Queen of Scots (12 page)

My face was slick with rain by the time I reached the fountain, but I felt good. Then suddenly as I was sitting there in the rain cuddling Thimble beneath my
brat
, I heard a strange, unearthly sound with a beauty so intense I felt a bruise in my heart. It was the wild, lonely notes of a bagpipe! I had asked Lord Erskine to send pipers but they could not have yet arrived. The rain had almost ceased but vapour rose from the pool of the fountain and gathered in the old trees like moss turned to mist. For a moment I was completely confused. Had I suddenly become a spirit who could traverse two continents, hover within one moment in two different realms like some ghost queen? Then from the swirling mist a figure melted. My breath locked in my throat. Robin! Robin MacClean was piping those pipes, his
brat
thrown back over one shoulder. “Robin!” I cried out.

He ceased blowing on the pipes. “Your Majesty!” Indeed he was as surprised as I was. We knew not what to say to each other. I finally stammered an explanation of how I could not abide the courtiers chattering away. “Hence I seek peace and refuge here in this harsh weather.” I gestured toward the sky.

“Not so foul, Your Majesty. In Scotland we would think nothing of this. Have you so forgotten Scotland?”

I felt the colour rise in my cheeks, a sob swell in my throat. “Never!” My voice cracked. “What I would not give to be there now. I miss my mother most terribly and all about this court seems fusty and too … too…” But my voice dwindled.

“Aye, Milady, I understand.” And his blue eyes shone with feeling. Then he said something extraordinary to me, something I shall treasure forever. Something more precious than any gem in my jewel casket. “I look into Your Majesty’s face and I believe that I am seeing Scotland. I believe the oceans evaporate and continents dissolve, and yes, I see my homeland.”

He then began once more to play the pipes. He told me that he was practising for when the Scots pipers arrive next month. He played for an hour, and I felt a peace steal over my soul, and yes, I felt the bruises in my heart. But to be bruised is to be human, to be coursing with blood. For bruises are caused by blood spilled under the skin. They are the tears that bleed inside. My eyes rested on Robin MacClean, and I have memorized every line of his face. I am shocked to have these feelings.

So now I am sick with the catarrh knocking in my chest. But I mind it not. I still hear the music Robin played. I can almost feel the mist on my cheek, and I remember the creases that fan out like rays of light from the edges of his bright blue eyes. It stirs my heart and my heart does pump blood and if I am to be bruised – well, so be it. I am human, a Queen now, and someday, a woman.

May 18, 1554

I am feeling better, but three of the four Marys are now sick. Not Mary Fleming. There is a part of me that wishes Mary Fleming were sick. It would perhaps explain some of her odd behaviour. She was quite upset today when Madame de Parois insisted that even though the rest of us were sick that she continue with the music lessons with Signore Marcellini. I saw no need for it and thus have sent a note to Madame de Parois that there are to be no more music lessons until I can attend again.

June 1, 1554

Nearly two weeks since I have written. My illness took a turn for the worse. I was actually delirious at one point. They bled me. Doctor Bourgoing finally agreed. I was so delirious I did not realize they were slicing into my heel and cupping it. Now my heel is black and blue and hurts if I put weight on it. I had strange, turbulent dreams, for days on end it seemed. I often dreamed of Robin MacClean. In one dream we stood in a pool of the fountain and he piped to me. It was so real. I could almost feel the water lapping against my legs. In another we, Robin and I, were back in Scotland at Lake Mentieth at the priory on the island of Inchmahome. We were the only people on the island, and Robin said we should swim around it. But I said, “I cannot swim.”

“It is easy,” he said. “I’ll teach you how. Climb on my back.” So I did. I held on to his broad shoulders, and the movement of his body through the water was soon inscribed on my mind, and I said, “I can swim by myself.” And I slipped off his back and floated. We swam together around the island and on a rock near shore Francis waved to us. He had a sweet, sad look on his face.

“Oh, Mary! Mary! What a swimmer you are!” he called out.

“Come in, Francis. It’s easy.”

“No, I shall never be able to. Mary, you are strong and beautiful.” I looked at Robin and I saw from the happy look on his face that he agreed. I hope that in my delirium I did not call out any names.

June 2, 1554

I prepare for a visit from the Bishop of Galloway along with a Scottish delegation. They bring letters, of course, from the rival factions and parties in Scotland. I fear that the Bishop will beg for mercy for the Duke of Châtelherault, Lord Arran, who was found guilty of taking money from the treasury. It is, of course, unthinkable to restore his original powers, which he so abused. But I am not against mercy of some sort. I have discussed this in a letter to my mother and received from her yesterday a letter regarding this subject. It was one I had to hide most definitely from my uncle le Balafré. One might imagine what the old warrior thinks of any mercies being extended to anyone who has so abused his powers. Mother cautions me that I am of an impulsive nature and that I need only listen and give the appearance of an open mind. I need not come to a decision in the presence of these gentlemen. “Never,” she wrote, “make a decision in public.” I am to write her what indeed the proposals for mercy are, and then she shall deliberate and give me guidance on this matter. I have made a list of the important points of her letter concerning my demeanour during this audience right here in my diary. I destroyed the letter itself.

Things to remember when receiving the Bishop and the Scottish delegation:

•   Be attentive to each member of the delegation.

•   Look each gentleman directly in the eye as you speak to him.

•   Ask questions of as many gentlemen as possible, making sure to address each one by his full title (this I knew!).

•   At the end of the audience, I am to summarize briefly all that has been said – to prove that I listened – and then say the following words: “My Lords and Bishop, I have listened carefully to the subjects on which you have spoken. Be assured that I take these concerns most seriously and shall give them my considered thought. I thank you for your unflagging loyalty to the estates of Scotland.”

And then I am to invite them to a special banquet at which my future husband, Francis, shall be in attendance. It is most important that Francis attend for this indeed will be a constant reminder of the vital connection between Scotland and France and the strong deterrent we shall present to the English.

June 5, 1554

Francis threw up at the banquet for the Scottish delegation! It splattered right onto the Bishop of Galloway’s surplice! And then he – Francis, that is – fainted. This did not further the notion of the Scots-French alliance as a strong deterrent toward England. I was mortified. Of course, so was Francis. I tried my best to present an air of composure. But then I realized that perhaps this was wrong, as it might make them think that he does this all the time. And everything had gone so well until that point. I had done exactly as my mother counselled. When I write her a report of this meeting, I am not going to mention Francis’s illness, although I probably should, for certainly the Scottish delegation will.

Concerning the mercies they requested on behalf of the Duke of Châtelherault, it was not as much as I had anticipated. They asked merely for a reduction of the interest on the money he is to pay back. I did as Mother said. I spoke neither yea or nay to such a proposal but gave them encouragement that I would consider it. Perhaps I did suggest that I felt this was not too much to ask.

I am completely exhausted, however, for I took much of the delegation hunting and hawking and horseback riding with me. I felt that I must make up for Francis in terms of my vigour. Poor Francis, he is in deepest despair. I keep telling him to pay no heed. It is done. It cannot be undone but people will forget it. But he sees through my words and says, “Mary, people do not forget when a Dauphin who is to be a King vomits at a state banquet.” He is right but this I must not say.

June 7, 1554

I am absolutely furious. I thought the four Marys sympathetic to my embarrassment and predicament concerning Francis’s illness at the banquet for the Scottish delegation. But then this morning I heard them all giggling madly as I entered Mary Fleming’s chamber. I begged to be let in on the joke. They were suddenly quiet, and the more I insisted the more they hesitated. But I guessed immediately. “A new rhyme – tell me, Mary.” So with eyes downcast she stepped forward and recited this loathsome ditty:

Francis sups with

Kings and Lords

Then brings it up in ways untoward.

He burps

He gags

He turns bright red

Then falls over

As if he’s dead.

I absolutely boiled with anger. I fled the room and have not spoken to them all day.

June 8, 1554

We go to Anet in three days. The four Marys and I are so excited. Diane plans a masquerade ball for us. We are busy considering our costumes. Oh yes, I am finished being angry with the four Marys. It is hard to remain angry when there is so much good amusement to be had.

June 16, 1554
Anet

We are back at Anet and not a moment too soon. Queen Catherine, of course, is not with us, as she never comes here. I myself spent some days at Meudon visiting Grandmama. The baby Charles has grown so. He now rolls over and smiles and reaches for objects you dangle in front of him. Aunt Anne and Grandmama both talk of how they hope that Queen Catherine will soon again be with child for it always improves her mood. She has lost more babies than I knew. This I never knew – that she was married nearly ten years before giving birth to Francis. I cannot imagine having babies. I mean, I know I want them, but somehow I picture them about four months old and very chubby and adorable like little Charles. Actually having them seems very mysterious to me, although I do know something about how that all comes about. The four Marys and I talk about it quite a bit.

Ronsard is also here with us at Anet. These are the days of Midsummer – the longest days of the year, the times of briefest darkness. It makes the nights slip by magically spun with starlight and moonlight between the dusk and the dawn. The dusk gathers from seven in the evening until nearly ten at night. It gives us a long twilight in which the world turns lavender, then a tender grey before the darkness thickens. That is why our masquerade ball shall not begin until an hour before midnight. We hope that the King will come. Oh, surely he will, for he loves dressing up with Diane and dancing under the stars.

With Ronsard we have studied much Greek and Latin literature in which the ancient pagan gods come out to frolic on this shortest night of the year. So we are all now deciding which deities and sprites and spirits we want to be. Janet Sinclair and her husband, John Kemp, and Lord Erskine plan to go as the three Fates who spin the thread of human destiny. Diane will undoubtedly go as her namesake, the goddess of the moon and the hunt, and if King Henry comes he will be Phoebus, the sun god. Francis is thinking of going as the Man in the Moon or Cupid with golden wings and a bow. Mary Seton wants to be Phillida, a shepherd girl. I want to go as Philomela, but everyone cries no, that her story is too sad. King Tereus cut out her tongue for fear that she would tell his wife, her sister, that he loved Philomela more. He then abandoned her, telling everyone she was dead. But Philomela survived and was transformed into a nightingale who sang her story with a most beautiful voice. Master Cellini is here and shall help us with our costumes. He says he can design for me a most wonderful nightingale gown with jewel-studded wings and a feathered mask. Midsummer’s Eve is only a few days away, so we must get to work.

June 17, 1554

Everything here is almost perfect. Ronsard, Cellini, and all the wonderful artists of the court love Diane so. She holds poetry salons almost every evening. And if we are not in the music salon hearing Ronsard or some wonderful musician – not Signore Marcellini, whose talents show less brightly here – we are invited into her magnificent library, one of the finest collections in all of France, nay, all of Europe, some say. Many of the books are bound with golden arabesques and crimson velvet with enamelled corners. She allows us all to take them down and read them.

In addition to these books, she has some very old, rare manuscripts, one from the year 1358 – an unimaginable distance back in time. There is another written in the hand of an ancient Norman knight from the year 1422. She encourages all of us children to pore over these books and manuscripts. Diane is so different from Queen Catherine. The first phrase I learned in the court of France when I met Queen Catherine was,
Ne touche pas.
(Don’t touch.) It is the first phrase I think all of the Queen’s children learn. She is maniacally possessive of her things. She is consumed with fear that her precious books, or jewels, or whatever, shall be damaged. Diane is just the opposite. We are all so gay, except Mary Fleming, who grows more and more withdrawn every day. I think I must speak to her directly. The time has come.