The Wild Queen (14 page)

The day before the ceremony I moved with my attendants into a specially prepared suite in the palace of the archbishop of Paris. The Four Maries were with me, all of them bubbling with excitement. King Henri had determined that the marriage of the dauphin would be the grandest event in all of Europe and named my uncle François as the master of ceremonies, but it was Madame de Poitiers, behind the scenes, who orchestrated everything. The only one who seemed detached was, curiously, Queen Catherine. I thought I understood why: she believed her little dauphin was too young to marry. But I knew that I could make the boy happy and I was sure she would soon change her mind.

Long before the sun rose over Paris on my wedding day, I awakened, recited my prayers, and, still in my dressing gown, sat down to write to my mother. I was deeply disappointed that she could not be with me on this important day of my life, but there had not been enough time to arrange for such a long and difficult journey. Often when I wrote to my mother, I was in too much of a hurry to take proper care to write in the elegant cursive style I had been taught. But on this day, a Sunday before dawn under a clear sky full of stars, I formed each word carefully
I must tell you, dearest Maman, that I am most assuredly one of the happiest women in the world.
I signed the letter and sprinkled sand on the page to dry the ink just as Sinclair arrived with a bowl of oat porridge and a pitcher of cream.

When she saw that I was about to turn it down, my nurse shook a warning finger at me. “You'll need every bit of strength today, my lovely girl,” she said. I noticed that she was teary-eyed and sniffling. To please her, I took the bowl and ate every spoonful.

On a dressmaker's mannequin, my wedding gown waited, shimmering white satin embroidered with hundreds of pearls and diamonds. Since my betrothal I had been walking around in a copy of this gown, getting used to the weight of the satin and lace and jewels and learning to maneuver the long, sweeping train that would be carried in procession by two of the dauphin's young cousins.

My maidservants arrived to help me dress, and the Four Maries settled in to keep me company during this long process.

“You will truly be the white lily of France.” Seton sighed when all but the train was in place.

“Everyone will be talking!” cried La Flamin. “And you will love every minute of it!”

It was true. I was perfectly aware that a white wedding gown was a break with tradition. I was also aware that white was the ideal foil for my auburn hair.

The royal hairdresser arrived, but I dismissed him, saying, “Madame Seton will see to it, thank you.” He bowed and left, but I knew he was not pleased to be deprived of a chance to boast to his friends.

Seton stayed with me, and the other Maries waited until the last possible moment to leave for their own quarters. I had given them each an expensive new gown for the occasion, though I could imagine how Parois would have reacted to such an extravagant gesture. Seton draped a loose dressing gown over the wedding dress and began to brush my hair to a satiny sheen. Madame de Poitiers arrived and clasped a circlet of precious jewels around my neck.

“A gift from the king,” she said, stepping back to admire the effect. “But where is your hairdresser?” she asked. “He will need to see that your hair is properly done and takes into account the golden crown.”

“Seton is doing my hair,” I said. I did not tell her that I planned to wear my hair loose, another break with tradition, not pinned up to accommodate a crown. “It will be fine, madame, I promise you.”

Madame de Poitiers hesitated, glancing at Seton, who was smiling uncertainly. “Very well, Madame Marie,” she said at last, and she left me and Seton suppressing unseemly trills of laughter.

The minutes ticked by until the gold clock on my dressing table chimed nine times. At this hour musicians would be entertaining the crowds gathering outside the cathedral. In another hour the bridal procession would begin. I wondered what François was thinking. Was he nervous? Ill, perhaps? But I did not have long to worry about this, for my uncle's steward arrived to escort me to the hall where the royal family, the princes of the blood—relatives of the king—and the highest members of the nobility were assembled for the procession from the archbishop's palace to the cathedral.

“Un moment, s'il vous plaît ”
I said, and the steward withdrew.

I removed the dressing gown and took a long moment to study my reflection in the polished silver of the mirror. What I saw pleased me. I had been praised for my beauty since my childhood. It was gratifying to have courtiers and ladies in waiting and servants tell me that I was beautiful, but one was always a bit doubtful of their sincerity Like my mother's side of the family, the Guises, I was tall and slender with a neat waist and delicate breasts. I was blessed with my father's coloring—rich auburn hair, eyes the color of amber, a flawless complexion as pale as porcelain—which set off my even features. My ears were larger than I would have liked, but overall the effect was good. On my wedding day, in my wedding finery, I did indeed believe that I was beautiful.

Oui,
I thought.
Je suis prête.
I am ready.

 

The spring sun bathed the city in a golden light. The sound of music and the cheers of the crowd made a merry cacophony. A clock in a nearby church tower struck the hour, and immediately throughout all of Paris a tumult of bells began to ring. The great procession moved slowly toward the cathedral, a hundred gentlemen of the household followed by a swarm of noblemen. Somewhere in the crowd I spotted my bridegroom, François, a slight figure in a luminous suit of cloth of gold.

I was ready to experience every delight, savor every moment of this marvelous day In spite of the weight of my magnificent gown, I felt as if I were floating. The crown of gold set with dozens of gems rested heavily on my head, but I knew I had made the right choice in wearing my hair loose. King Henri smiled broadly as he offered me his left hand, and I placed my right hand lightly upon it. As I had practiced with one of the king's footmen, we walked at a slow, steady pace through the wide archway leading from the archbishop's palace to the doors of the cathedral, giving the crowds time to get their fill of gawking. My uncle François had made sure that the noblemen and their wives did not block the common people's view. The roar of the jubilant crowd was deafening, and I had no doubt that the cheers were mostly for me.

At a signal from my uncle, the pages in their brilliant silks began tossing fistfuls of gold and silver coins to the crowd, shouting, “Largesse! Largesse!” In the wild scramble, people were caught in the crush, their hats lost and their clothes torn. (Unfortunately, some were injured. The results of the distribution of largesse were nearly always the same: the people expected it, royalty tried to meet the demand, and greed overcame civility and created mayhem. I did not witness this but heard of it afterward.)

The archbishop of Paris waited on a specially designed stage in front of the cathedral. My soon-to-be husband arrived with his brothers Charles and Edouard. François looked sickly, and I wondered if the fêtes leading up to the wedding had made him ill.
Perhaps he is just uneasy,
I thought. For my part, I was not in the least nervous, and I gave him my most reassuring smile.

The bishop greeted King Henri and the rest of the bridal party and made a speech. I heard scarcely a word of it. The king removed a ring from his finger and placed it on a satin pillow held by a page. The archbishop of Rouen blessed the ring, and François, trembling so much that he nearly dropped it, slipped it on my finger. The same archbishop led us through our vows, pronounced us man and wife, and blessed us.

We were married. It was that simple.

T
HE PAGEANTRY
of a royal wedding had only just begun. My husband and I entered the cathedral to hear Mass and, kneeling side by side on golden cushions, receive the bread and wine of the sacrament. After the archbishop pronounced the benediction, we stepped out once more into the bright spring sunshine. I took François's hand—it was cold and damp—and that simple gesture elicited great cries of joy from the delirious crowd.

My uncle François seemed to be everywhere at once. “Take your time,” he told us. “The crowd wants to see you, and they are entitled to that. This is a great occasion for the people of France.”

We promenaded this way and that on the huge outdoor stage, each of us smiling and waving first one arm and then the other, acknowledging the cheers. But one familiar figure in that sea of joyous celebrants caught my attention: a tall, auburn-haired young man with his arms folded across his chest glaring at me, unsmiling.

“There is my brother James Stuart,” I remarked to the dauphin. “I wonder why he looks so sour.”

I leaned toward my father's oldest son and blew him a kiss. But his scowl merely deepened. I had seen little of James since he had accompanied me to France, nearly ten years earlier. He had spent time pursuing his studies but seldom came to court. I thought he had returned to Scotland. But here he was, making sure that I saw him and witnessed his displeasure.

My uncle signaled that we had done our official duty and should now make our way, at the same slow and stately pace, back to the archbishop's palace for the first of two banquets. This banquet was for the royal family, including relatives and the princes of the blood, and the highest nobility. Trumpets and sackbuts played fanfares. Servants carrying golden platters presented a parade of Queen Catherine's favorites, as well as some of mine: frittered pears and frangipane, a custard tart made with ground almonds.

Halfway through the feast, my neck began to ache from the weight of the gold crown. I signaled to a page standing rigidly behind my chair. “Tell the king that my crown is causing me great discomfort. Ask him what I should do.”

The page made his way down the table to King Henri's page and repeated my message. In a moment he returned. “Madame, one of the king's gentlemen has been appointed to hold your crown above your head for as long as shall be required.”

The Chevalier de Saint-Crispin appeared at my elbow. “With your permission, madame,” he said and gently lifted the crown from my head and held it up. What a relief! I finished my meal with the crown hovering just inches above my brow.

Then the dancing began.

Who would dance with whom, in what order, and in what style had all been arranged in advance. According to custom, I danced first with King Henri; my new husband's partner was his mother. Though the dauphin, at the insistence of Diane de Poitiers, had made an effort to learn the court dances, he plainly did not enjoy it any more than he had the first time we danced together, and went through the motions as though he were carved from wood. I, on the other hand, was in my glory. The king, who was as tall as I, made an excellent partner. My steps were graceful and sure. My shimmering white gown sparkled with jewels. My train had been removed, revealing interlacing bands of cloth of gold. My auburn hair rippled on my shoulders. I knew that every eye was upon me, and I reveled in it.

The dauphin-king (as a result of our marriage, François now held the title of king of Scotland) and I were now expected to dance together. We must have made a strange couple, as I towered over him. It surely looked as though I were dancing with a much younger brother. Nevertheless, I whispered encouragement, François smiled up at me gratefully, and we did well enough to be rewarded by the applause of our friends and family

***

Late in the afternoon the whole court left the archbishop's palace and moved to the palace of the Parlement of Paris. The ladies rode in litters draped with cloth of gold—I shared a litter with the queen—and the dauphin and his gentlemen followed on horseback, their mounts trapped to the ground in red velvet. It was my uncle's idea to take a long, circuitous route through Paris, twice crossing the bridges over the Seine, giving the people every opportunity to see the royal family, the nobility, and most of all their dauphin and his dauphine in our gorgeous finery. Queen Catherine sat back, saying little, letting me receive the adulation of the crowd. At the time I gave scarcely a thought to my new mother-in-law and what she was thinking. Perhaps she was used to staying in the background. Even on her son's wedding day, she was again overshadowed by the elegant, confident black and white presence of Madame de Poitiers.

I did not mention to Queen Catherine that twice more in the course of the procession I caught sight of my half brother James Stuart, his glowering mien unchanged. He had been invited to the festivities but had declined. Why then, was he making such a point of showing me his displeasure? The first time I saw him, I had greeted him warmly. The second time I acknowledged him with a wave. The third time, feeling deeply annoyed, I pretended not to see him.

***

The second banquet, followed by another ball, would be attended by visiting ambassadors representing our neighboring countries, as well as many local dignitaries. At the queen's insistence—“You will thank me for it later, my dear”—I withdrew for an hour, slept deeply, changed out of my white gown into an emerald-green silk, and returned to greet my guests, completely refreshed.

There was more dancing and more entertainment. The poet Pierre Ronsard read several excellent verses composed to celebrate the occasion, but the main event of the evening involved the mechanical devices that the king so much enjoyed. Six pairs of make-believe horses constructed of cloth and wood circled the hall, each pair drawing a coach carrying a group of musicians. A half dozen ships with silvery sails filled with wind from hidden bellows crossed an artificial sea of painted canvas. Somehow the sea was made to heave up and down like waves as the ships sailed around the hall, each with a “captain” aboard. King Henri commanded the first ship and ordered his vessel to stop in front of me. Four sturdy “sailors” then lifted me aboard to the seat of state. No one could have failed to be impressed by this display—and that, I understood, was the purpose of all the revels that took place that night, would go on throughout the next day at the Palais du Louvre, and would continue after that for three more days of tournaments and jousting.