The Wild Queen (10 page)

My uncle Charles celebrated the funeral Mass. Maman, who had been out of mourning for my grandfather for just six months, again went into deepest mourning. She and I, as well as every member of the French court, dressed in black cloaks with hoods and long full sleeves.

While we grieved, news reached us that Queen Catherine had given birth to her sixth child, Edouard-Alexandre, on the eighteenth of September, 1551. Just a few days earlier, Lady Fleming had sent word from the convent that she had given birth to a boy, and the king had acknowledged the infant as his son, naming him Henri d'Angouleme. Now there would be two new
enfants
in the royal nursery—Queen Catherine's and Lady Fleming's—under the critical eye of Madame de Poitiers. La Flamin did not wish to speak of it, and my mother was too deeply enveloped in her grief to pay any attention to this.

Even with all that had happened, I tried to savor every moment of our last weeks together as my mother had requested, but I found little joy in it. Inevitably, the day arrived when my mother and her entourage boarded the king's galley, and I watched her sail away.

For days I wept, mourning her departure as though she too had died.

H
OW INNOCENT
I
WAS
! The seeds of all that is now happening to me were sown during those early years. The dangers I faced were not just from a single disgruntled Scot who tried to poison me but from the people closest to me, people I loved and trusted. But I was young and naive, blinded by the grandeur of my position, and I did not recognize the threat.

A
S SOON AS
Lady Fleming had recovered from childbirth, she was sent back to Scotland in disgrace. La Flamin wept to see her go—she had forgiven her mother's transgressions, though it was surely difficult to have her mother the subject of gossip and crude jokes.

I was unhappy also after Lady Fleming was gone, for now I had to deal with my new governess. Madame de Parois was a virtuous woman who proved to have no humor, little sense, and a thoroughly nasty disposition. She had no discernible bosom or waist, her lips were thin and unsmiling, she wore a perpetual frown, and her voice was as harsh as a crow's.

“You can see why the queen and Madame de Poitiers chose her,” remarked La Flamin. “Madame de Parois is so ill-looking and unpleasant that no one could possibly be jealous of her.”

It was cruel of La Flamin to say such a thing, but I did not disagree.

My uncle Charles, who had recommended her, assured my mother that the lady was devout and would see to it that I was regular in my prayers. I thought that a poor reason for hiring her. I did not need anyone to monitor my devotion or oversee my prayers. I wanted a governess who would order new gowns when I needed them and make sure that my living arrangements were suitable to my rank as queen. Now almost nine years old, I truly believed I was more adult than child, though Madame de Parois seemed to take pleasure in reminding me that I was
not
an adult and should not expect to be treated as one. We were at odds with each other from the start. The situation did not improve.

A little more than a year after the arrival of Madame de Parois, when François was nine, King Henri decided that the dauphin should be given his own apartments and a staff of servants. Queen Catherine insisted that Princesse Élisabeth and Princesse Claude, who were still very young, did not need their own households but would stay with her in the queen's dressing room.

I learned of these changes in a conversation with Anne d'Este, my uncle's wife, who was always very kind to me and, above all, honest. We were sitting together in the large enclosed court where King Henri played tennis nearly every day. She had her children with her, Henri and Catherine, named for the king and queen. Her infant daughter greeted me with chortles and waves of her tiny fists. Her little son grinned up at me impishly and clutched my skirts. I adored them both and thought that someday in the far distant future, the dauphin and I would produce enough chubby little ones like them to fill the royal nursery.

The king was a commanding figure, dressed all in white from his fine white cap to his white shoes. An excellent tennis player, he was quick on his feet and powerful in his return of the ball. His opponent that day was Anne's husband, François, and though my uncle played well, the king played better. We did not see the end of the match, for the infant set up such a fuss that we had to carry her out, leaving Queen Catherine and other members of the court to watch the inevitable outcome of the game.

“Your uncles were shocked to learn Queen Catherine's decision to keep the princesses in her quarters,” Anne said while we walked back and forth to quiet her howling daughter. “They are quite displeased. What, they ask, is to become of the queen of Scots? Your uncles do not believe that you, the eldest of the royal children as well as a crowned queen, should ever have to accept less than the privileges the dauphin enjoys.”

“What will happen now?” I asked, and took little Catherine from her mother. She immediately ceased her noise and smiled at me.

“We shall see,” Anne replied. “The main issue is money. I am sure you know that.”

There had been many discussions about money, that much I did know. It was often assumed, incorrectly I believe, that young persons did not understand the tensions and issues around them. In fact we overheard much more than the adults realized, discussed it with our friends, and came to conclusions that might have been inaccurate but were likely somewhere near the truth.

Madame de Parois, in particular, misjudged me. She boasted to my mother that she kept me ignorant of the financial problems, but she was wrong. I was to have my own household, my own servants, and as many horses and dogs as I wished. But the moves of the court were always costly Three pack mules were needed just to carry my bed from one château to the next, dozens more to carry the rest of my furnishings—wall hangings and books, even the plates and cups and spoons needed for dining, as well as trunks filled with gowns, furs, shoes, gloves, stockings, and underthings, and the three large coffers with my jewels. Who should pay for moving them? Were my expenses the responsibility of Scotland and my mother or of France and King Henri?

It was not just moving expenses. I loved pretty clothes and had a fondness for luxurious touches. I wanted to be well dressed, and I understood that a splendid wardrobe was my due. If the French princesses had a special kind of silk to line their dresses, then I wished to have the same. I attended numerous events where as a crowned queen I had to dress the part, in gowns made of cloth of gold or silver tissue. Besides, I was growing. My skirts were becoming too short, my bodices too tight. And I could scarcely be expected to attend a fashionable wedding in a gown that had been seen at least twice before.

“I wish to have my monogram stitched onto my dresses,” I told Madame de Parois. “Anne d'Este has her cipher on her gowns, and so do all the fashionable ladies of the court. I must be as well turned out as any of them!”

“The monogram is an extravagance and unaffordable,” Madame de Parois replied stiffly.

“My rank demands it,” I insisted.

“There is not enough money to buy the gowns you believe your rank demands,” my governess informed me. “Your wardrobe and other expenses are more than the Scottish government can afford and the French are willing to pay"

So much for her claim that she kept me ignorant of financial problems. Still, I did not react well to being told I could not have something that seemed to me an absolute necessity and quite within reason.

I took my complaint to my uncle Charles, the cardinal, who was known for his luxurious taste. Like his brother François, he was tall and slender, with heavy-lidded blue eyes, thick brows, a well-tended mustache, and a perfumed beard. He dressed in the red robes of a cardinal only on official occasions. For his private visits with me he wore the finest silks and a beautifully embroidered velvet doublet.

“Surely,
mon cher oncle,
you understand how important it is for your niece to keep up appearances in the French court!” I argued with my most persuasive smile. Anne d'Este had shown me that a gracious manner achieved more than frowns and foot stamping, and I did my best to imitate her elegant style.

The cardinal laid aside the leather-bound volume he had been reading and regarded me carefully. “You do understand, do you not, Marie, that funds are not unlimited, though we may wish otherwise? When only a certain sum of money is available, then economies must be made in one place in order to satisfy needs and desires in another.”

“I do understand, Uncle,” I said, congratulating myself for having this very grown-up conversation. “What economies do you propose?”

“I have been thinking this over for some time, Marie, and after due consideration, I recommend that you accompany the court on fewer journeys. Stay longer at the châteaux you most enjoy, such as Fontainebleau, omit the few that are less interesting—Compiègne, for example—and rejoin the court a month later. This makes a great deal of sense, I am sure you agree, and it will save a great deal of money.”

Uncle Charles leaned back, made a steeple of his fingers, and waited, a satisfied smile on his lips. He no doubt expected me to give my assent immediately But I did not.

“Surely you cannot be serious!” I cried, gravely disappointed—even horrified—by his suggestion. “I would be separated from the dauphin, whom I shall one day marry, and the other royal children, whom I love as my own sisters and brothers! I would no longer be in the company of Queen Catherine, or Madame de Poitiers, or King Henri, my own dearest family!”

The first tears had begun to trickle down my cheeks.

The cardinal appeared startled by this vehement response. “My dear Marie,” he said soothingly, “it seems to me a small enough sacrifice. You would still have the company of your old friends the Four Maries. I was not suggesting that you be abandoned.”

He was maddeningly calm. Could he not understand how much this mattered to me? I took a deep breath. “It is not a small sacrifice!” I shouted, forgetting the lesson of Anne d'Este.

The cardinal's lips formed a thin, disapproving line. “Very well,” he said after a long pause, during which I had begun to weep in earnest. “Your journeys will not be curtailed. We shall have to find other economies, and you are no more likely to approve of them. But be assured, my dear niece, that in the end you have no choice in the matter.”

He picked up his book again and began to read, and I understood that I had been dismissed.

***

I continued to move from one château to the next with the court, but I soon realized there were fewer servants moving with me to tend to my needs. Several who had received no wages for some time simply quit. My hairdresser stopped coming. Fortunately, my friend Seton had always enjoyed frouncing my hair, and she readily took up the responsibility, fixing my hair in a different style every day While she crimped and curled, we chattered about important matters—fashions we desired (I was still determined to have my embroidered monograms); delectable treats we might persuade Chef Matteo to prepare in the royal kitchens (gâteau de crème, the cream cake that was a favorite); people we loved (Anne d'Este, among others); and people we loathed (Madame de Parois, without question).

Madame de Parois became more and more discontented and ill-tempered. She got into a terrible argument with one of my senior ladies in waiting, and I stood open-mouthed as they flung harsh words at each other. In the end, the lady stormed off and handed in her resignation. I hoped that Madame de Parois would also resign, but she did not, and our arguments grew more heated.

It was in my nature as well as my upbringing to be generous to others, and so when I believed a gown was no longer suitable because I had outgrown it or the fashion had changed or I had been seen in it too many times, I sent it to my mother's younger sister, the one who was the abbess of a convent—the same convent to which Grand-Mère had given my unsuitable gowns when I first arrived in France. The good nuns would take the dresses apart and salvage what they could of the luxurious fabrics to make altar hangings for their convent chapels and vestments for the priests. At my mother's suggestion, I frequently gave gowns made of less expensive fabrics to friends or servants. But I did not give any to Madame de Parois.

My governess objected. “What, are you afraid to give me any of your castoffs lest you make me rich? That is laughable! Anyone can see that you intend to keep me as poor as a beggar!”

What can be said to such a jealous and spiteful person? I felt as though she had slapped me. I was about to utter some cruel words, but I thought of my mother and said only, “Madame, I am sorry for you.”

Then I told my mistress of the wardrobe that if she saw the governess taking away any of my things without my explicit consent, she should inform me quietly. “If I want to give one of my gowns to the abbess or to any other worthy person, that is my right. Madame de Parois has nothing to say about it.”

***

That was not the end of our battles. Parois insisted she had the authority to tell me what I could and could not wear. I was fond of jewels, like many girls of my age, and I could indulge my fondness because I had so many—several chests of costly necklaces, rings, bracelets, and earrings. One day I decided to put on a pearl necklace with a large sapphire that went nicely with the blue velvet gown I was wearing. As Magdalène, my maidservant, was clasping it around my neck, Madame de Parois noticed and frowned. No one could frown as deeply as my governess.

“Do not wear that necklace, Marie,” she said.
“Je vous en prie—I
beg you.”

Magdalène began to remove it, but I stopped her. “Do continue, Magdalène. I want to wear it.”