The Wild Queen (6 page)

I knew I had made a mistake. The Four Maries had barely appeared, and already we had broken an important rule. “I will not forget again,” I told her, apologizing, and changed quickly to French. But it was too late. The next day Madame de Poitiers sent for me.

“Madame Marie,” she began. “You are to speak only French. You do understand that, do you not?”

“Oui,
Madame de Poitiers,” I said.

“Then you must promise me you will not speak your former language with the Four Maries.”

My
former
language? Was it not still my language?
“Je vous promets,
" I said. I stared at my shoes, knowing it would be a hard promise to keep now that my friends were with me again.

***

We now spoke French among ourselves with ease. None of my four friends called herself Mary anymore; we were all Maries.

When I lived in Scotland with my mother, I had spent my days with the Four Maries for my companions. No one cared how we passed our time, and we ran about freely wherever we wished. But life at the French court was different. I was constantly surrounded by swarms of people. I was either at court with the king and queen and their children, the dauphin in particular, or visiting, or being visited by, my mother's family, and I loved them all. I often saw my grandparents, as well as uncles and aunts. My uncle François, recently married to Anne d'Este, was a soldier. A long scar on his cheek gotten when he fought bravely in battle against the English had earned him the name Le Balafré— “the Scarred One.” Despite the scar, or maybe because of it, I thought him very dashing and handsome. His brother Charles was a churchman, cardinal of Lorraine. He was handsome too, but not as dashing.

Twice each month I journeyed to Joinville to visit my grandparents at their château, a huge medieval fort on the River Marne only a day's ride from Fontainebleau. My brother François, duke of Longueville, was usually at Joinville when I arrived on Saturday evening. I was happy to see him, and he always had some little surprise for me. He loved to draw, and the gift was often a sketch of a bird or a flower that had caught his eye. “It reminded me of you and of our mother,” he explained each time, “and so I had to draw it.”

On Sunday after we had all heard Mass together in the chapel at the old château, we walked a short distance to the Château du Grand Jardin, a banqueting house surrounded by beautiful gardens that my grandfather had built as a place to entertain his guests. The Guise family gathered here for a fine meal, followed by dancing. My brother François and Grand-Père were my favorite partners. “You dance exquisitely,
ma petite
Marie!” my grandfather said, and his praise always delighted me. Sometimes Grand-Mère invited mimes to entertain us or itinerant troupes of actors to perform.

But most important was the lively conversation among my Guise aunts and uncles and grandparents. My uncles asked me a great many questions about life with the royal family and seized eagerly upon whatever court gossip I could report. I always did my best to please them, but Grand-Père usually brought the questioning to an end.

“Enough, gentlemen! Our lovely little queen is tired of such talk. Marie, I propose a visit to Grand-Mère's apartments for a chat with her pretty birds—would that please you,
ma chère
?”

Of course it would, and off we went together, my small hand in his large one.

***

I was a keen observer and a curious child, though I was still too young to understand the meaning of most of what I saw and heard at court. I also knew instinctively that I must not ask direct questions about what interested me but must wait to be told. I still had many unanswered questions—about Madame de Poitiers, for instance. I noticed that she always dressed in black and white and that King Henri was very close to her and spent nearly every afternoon with her. She had a daughter who was about the same age as the king and queen. “The duchess's daughter is in charge of the palace servants,” I heard Lady Fleming say, “and the duchess is in charge of the king.”

What does that mean?
I wondered but did not ask. How could a duchess be in charge of a king? That would surely make her very powerful! When I repeated Lady Fleming's remark to my uncles François and Charles, they laughed heartily Grand-Mère changed the subject quickly, asking about the Four Maries. I knew by her tone and her expression that she still did not approve of them, but she no longer referred to them as
les petites sauvages,
at least not within my hearing. But I received no explanation of what I had heard.

After three or four days with my Guise relatives, I returned to Fontainebleau. When summer came and the king ordered the court to move back to Saint-Germain, I continued to make the trip to Joinville, but now I traveled by riverboat. It had been a year since the king's royal galley arrived in Dumbarton and my friends and I had embarked on the journey to France. But the anniversary of my departure from Scotland passed without notice. I was by now thoroughly and completely at home in France.

K
ING
H
ENRI WAS
the most important man in all of France—I never doubted that. But I was unsure who was the most important woman: Queen Catherine or Diane de Poitiers? I understood why the king spent so much time with Madame de Poitiers, who was lively and amusing, and so little time with his wife, who seemed dull and unfriendly compared to the duchess. The queen had the superior title, yet I had heard members of her own court refer to her behind her back as “the merchant's daughter.” What did they mean?

I asked my grandmother, who explained it this way: “Though it is true that Queen Catherine lacks royal blood, her family, the Médicis, were not simple grocers, as some jealous courtiers would have you believe. Hers was a family of great prestige and enormous wealth and influence in Italy The Médicis built a fortune through trade in spices and cloth and an even greater fortune in banking. The queen's great-grandfather Lorenzo the Magnificent ruled the city of Florence like a prince. Her parents died when she was very young. Everyone called her Duchessina—'Little Duchess.' Her uncle became pope and arranged for her marriage to Henri, who was then duke of Orléans. Catherine de Médicis came with an enormous dowry, and old King François was happy to have her marry his second son. When the first son died, Catherine found herself queen of France. Poor girl—it was not easy for her here. Years passed before she produced her first child, your future husband, François. Before that finally happened, there had been talk of sending her back to Italy.”

This story made me feel more sympathy for the queen, but I was more curious than ever about the duchess. “What about Madame de Poitiers?” I asked.

Grand-Mère sniffed disapprovingly, almost as she did when she spoke of the Four Maries. “Henri became infatuated with her when he was just a boy, even though she was old enough to be his mother. They are still very close, the queen tolerates it, and that is all I wish to say about it.” I had more questions, but Grand-Mère was not in a mood to answer them. “Now you have the queen's story. You can make up your mind about her yourself. She will no doubt be your good friend if you do not cross her.”

“Just one more question,
s'il vous plaît!
Why does Madame de Poitiers always wear black and white?”

Grand-Mère smoothed the skirts of her gown. “Because it pleases her,” she said. “The reason she does everything.”

***

One day Queen Catherine surprised me by saying, “Should you wish to develop your needlework skills, Madame Marie, I would be pleased to help you.”

I was not certain I wanted the queen's help or instruction—she seemed so remote and cold—but, remembering Grand-Mère's advice, I thought it was better to accept than to refuse.

My mother had not been much interested in needlework, preferring to spend her time with music. I remembered her sweet voice and the harp and lute she played so beautifully. And how she loved to dance! She and Lady Fleming and her other ladies often spent whole evenings dancing in her royal apartments. Needlework, when my mother did take it out, usually lay forgotten in her lap. It had fallen to Sinclair to teach me the few simple embroidery stitches I knew.

But stitchery, not dancing, was Queen Catherine's passion, and she devoted many hours to it. I shyly showed her a piece of linen embroidered with a lopsided bird perched on a crooked branch bearing two withered-looking leaves. “You have chosen pretty colors for your bird, Madame Marie,” she said, examining my work. “But we shall have to begin at the beginning with the most basic stitches so that you learn them correctly. I have no doubt that with practice you will soon master them.”

She showed me the running stitch, several in-and-out stitches in a row. That was one I already knew, and I quickly produced a sample I considered perfect.

“Very nice,” she said. “Now let us see if you can improve them. You must make the stitches quite small and even, each one exactly the same size as the one next to it.”

How annoying!
I thought. I did not like to be corrected, but I said nothing and did as she had asked.

When I had mastered that to her satisfaction, I moved on to the backstitch, and then to the chain stitch, the split stitch, the tent stitch, the satin stitch, the herringbone. After I was introduced to each one, I practiced it over and over, until I did at last improve. Queen Catherine was always patient, as quick to praise as to correct. During those long and sometimes tedious hours I became better acquainted with her. I began to enjoy her company and look forward to our time together.

While I worked on my embroidery, I listened to the conversation of the queen and her ladies, thinking I might learn something interesting to report when I next saw my uncles and grandparents. But the talk was dull, and my mind drifted off. When I was finally dismissed, I made a hurried
révérence
and rushed away.

The dauphin often hovered outside his mother's chambers waiting for me to emerge.

“Ah, dear friend!” François would pipe, taking my hand, and we would wander to the tennis court to watch his father play or to the lists to cheer when King Henri, mounted on horseback, charged against his opponent and knocked him off balance or sent him sprawling.

François confided that his biggest dream was to participate in a real tournament with his father. “How exciting that w-w-would be!” he exclaimed.

He insisted on demonstrating his skill for me. His servant helped him into his specially made suit of armor—a gift from my uncle François, the Scarred One—and seated him on his pony. Carrying a lance, the dauphin urged the pony to gallop at full speed at a series of rings suspended by cords from a wooden arm. He managed to pick off the rings one by one with the point of his lance, and then he trotted over to where I sat waiting, saluted me, and proudly presented me with the rings.

Occasionally I persuaded the Four Maries to accompany me to the lists, and Princesse Élisabeth as well. But my friends were quickly bored. “It would be so much more exciting if we could actually do it, not just sit here and watch,” said Beaton. “Do you suppose they would let us try?”

The rest of us turned to stare at her, stunned by her suggestion. Beaton, the most athletic of us, had been riding since her father set her on a horse when she was barely old enough to walk. Not yet seven, she was fearless.

“They will not let girls do it,” said La Flamin, always the most daring, the one who produced the wildest schemes, “but we could disguise ourselves as boys and creep into the royal stables and borrow horses.”

“Who would saddle them for us?” Seton asked uncertainly.

“I know how to saddle a horse,” Beaton declared. “I can show you how, or I can do it for you. We could use the dauphin's ponies.” She turned to me. “Do you think he would mind, Marie?”

“Of course not,” I assured her, though I had no idea what he would think.

“We would need armor,” Livingston reminded us. “And lances.”

We never put our scheme into action. But we did spend many hours discussing it and promising one another that someday we would actually find a way to do it.

***

The weekas and months slipped by in an untroubled stream, each day much like the one before it. I studied diligently with my tutors. My stitchery improved to the satisfaction of Queen Catherine. I enjoyed my life as part of the royal family, paid regular visits to my Guise relatives, spent as much time as possible with the Four Maries, and accepted the dauphin's unflagging devotion.

In the summer of 1549 King Henri decided to go to war against England with the aim of winning back the town of Boulogne, a French town that had been in English hands for many years. Accompanied by my uncle François, the king rode off at the head of an army to do battle against his old enemy while the rest of the court retired to the hunting lodge at Compiègne. Then in October the royal family experienced a great loss: eight-month-old Louis suddenly sickened and died. The queen was overcome with grief. The king rushed back from his battles to mourn with her. He appeared even more melancholy than usual. A heavy cloud of sadness hung over the court.

“Maman and Papa pray for another son,” Princesse Élisabeth whispered.

Having only one son was a serious problem for the royal family. What if something happened to François? By French law, neither of the princesses could inherit the throne. A few weeks later their prayers were at least partly answered when the queen learned she was again expecting a child. But what if it was another daughter? Would King Henri grieve as my father did and lose his will to live?

I was the cause of my father's death.
That knowledge had begun to haunt me. By Scottish law, a woman could inherit the throne and rule Scotland, but that did not mean she should. At least my father did not believe so.