The Wild Queen Page 15

I looked at her sharply. “I do not believe you,” I said.

  After a long silence she relented a little. “ ’Tis too painful, mistress. I cannot see how it would help you,” she insisted stubbornly.

  But I could be just as stubborn. “I order you to tell me, Sinclair. The truth, and all of it.”

  My old nurse sighed. “Silly tales of what evil was done to cause him his sickness,” she said slowly. “That his valet is in the pay of his enemies and put a poisonous powder into his nightcap. That his hairdresser was bribed to pour a poisonous oil into his ear.”

  Bad enough, but not as bad as I had expected. “Is there more?”

  Her hesitation told me there was indeed more. I waited.

  “I’ve told you what I’ve heard from the kitchens,” she continued reluctantly. “But the truly awful stories come from the peasants in the countryside. They say le petit roi has long suffered from leprosy, and there is but one cure for it—to bathe himself in the blood of a wee bairn.”

  “In the blood of a child?” I asked incredulously, and I shoved aside the bowl of porridge, unable to swallow another spoonful.

  “Aye, mistress. And ignorant people so feared him that they hid their children whenever he happened to pass by.”

  “How awful!” I shrieked, and Sinclair folded me in her arms to console me, as she had done so often when I was a child. I closed my eyes and leaned my head against her breast. “You are right, Sinclair. I have heard enough. If there is more, I do not wish to hear it.”

  The hours wore on until at last my husband’s agony ended, in the evening of Thursday, the fifth of December, 1560.

  But my torment was only beginning.

  Chapter 25

  Mourning

  NUMB WITH GRIEF, I passed the long night watching over Francois’s lifeless body.

  My husband was dead. I was a widow, three days short of eighteen. My marriage had lasted two years and not quite eight months. I was no longer the queen of France. It was a stunning blow.

  The priest returned to murmur more prayers. I sent him away.

  I prayed.

  The queen mother was already meeting with the privy council, which was preparing to pass on the crown to Francois’s ten-year-old brother, Charles-Maximilien. Catherine would rule as regent, I supposed. For the first time the power rested securely in her hands. I no longer had a role. I was the dowager queen, a mere figurehead.

  My first duty was to return the royal jewels. Queen Catherine had already sent a sharply worded message that she expected them, along with an inventory. I summoned Seton, the most pious of the Four Maries, to help me. I trusted her to keep the silence I needed while we made a list of the beautiful jewels I had been given when I became queen. During my brief marriage I had not had a chance to wear most of these gems—lavish diamond necklaces, a huge ruby as red as blood, sleeves encrusted with pearls. Returning the jewels to the queen mother symbolized the stripping away of my rank, and also of my life. I was determined to play my role with complete correctness. The queen mother would find no fault in my behavior.

  That task finished, I chose a few personal items to take with me into my mourning chamber, a room with the windows draped in black so that no natural light could enter and only a pair of candles to pierce the gloom. I had been wearing the deuil blanc, the white veil, in mourning for my mother; the six-month mourning period was almost over, and I soon would have given it up. Instead, I added a white gown to the veil. I had chosen to wear white at my wedding to flout the custom, having no notion that in the near future I would be wearing it as the widow of the king.

  “You may leave me now, Seton,” I said, and my friend nodded and silently slipped out of the chamber. I had intended to pray, but instead I lay down on the narrow bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  The long, sorrowful days passed slowly. Meals were brought to me and left on a table where I could eat them or not, as I wished.

  Custom allowed visits only by people of rank, and as it happened those were the people I least wanted to see. The ten-year-old boy who would now be King Charles IX paid his respects with a well-rehearsed speech. My Guise uncles came, their distress written plainly all over their faces. I mistrusted them but had no choice but to receive them. Let them offer their condolences, their promises of assistance! I nodded, eyes averted, silent, breathing easily only after they had gone.

  Grand-Mère came. Having suffered many losses herself she knew the value of silence. “Time will heal you,” she whispered and stretched out her hand to lace her bony old fingers with mine.

  On the third day after my husband’s death, I reached my eighteenth birthday No one even mentioned it.

  Mostly I sat at my writing table—not writing, just turning over my thoughts one by one, like the pages of a book. Sometimes I composed poetry The first of the verses were for my companion, my friend, my husband, my dearest François. Sometimes I was dry-eyed and empty. Sometimes I gave way to weeping and could not stop.

  And though I tried to banish them, my thoughts turned unbidden to James Hepburn, earl of Bothwell. With shame I remembered his embrace, his passionate kiss, and my response—too eager, too willing.

  Is this, the loss of everything, my punishment for those few moments? Am I guilty of a great sin? Was my offense so serious? Has a wildness truly taken root in me?

  The body of King François, age sixteen years and ten months, was buried at the Basilica of Saint-Denis, near his father’s. After the funeral, my mourning became more public. The Four Maries were now permitted to visit my mourning chamber, but they scarcely knew what to say. We gazed at one another with quivering lips. “One day soon we will laugh again,” I promised them, though I was not so sure.

  Henry Stuart, my handsome young cousin, made the journey from England to offer the condolences of his parents, Lord and Lady Lennox. He was fourteen and, as I could not help noticing, already even taller than my Guise uncles.

  I began to receive visits from ambassadors and government officials. None dared ask, but I knew the question that was on everyone’s mind: What will she do now?

  I could not have answered the question. This was the problem with which I struggled. Once the traditional forty days of solitary mourning ended, I would go back out into a world that had changed entirely for me. I was now titled dowager queen of France. Queen Mother Catherine would surely regard me as an unpleasant nuisance as she seized the reins of power. But I still held a valuable hand. I was the queen of Scotland; my husband’s death had not changed that. I needed no one to tell me that I was young and beautiful, that I was intelligent and capable of charming almost anyone. All of this would make me a highly desirable candidate for a second marriage, if that was what I wanted.

  Did I? I had no idea.

  My Guise uncles returned. Their demeanor was supplicating, and their words dripped with honey. I expected them to try to persuade me to marry my ten-year-old brother-in-law, the new king, Charles IX. That, of course, would not be possible for another five years and would require a special dispensation from the pope, but it would enable them to regain the control they had lost so abruptly when François died. I prepared for them to set forth this proposal and counted on Queen Catherine to be adamantly against such a marriage.

  But the plan my uncles described to me was entirely different. “It is our belief, chère Marie, that Don Carlos of Spain would make you an excellent match,” the cardinal said smoothly “He is a devout Catholic, close enough to your age, and the heir to the Spanish throne. Highly desirable!”

  Before I could react, my uncle François added, “How pleasant it would be for you to be near your good friend Élisabeth, the wife of Don Carlos’s father!”

  This might have been a tempting offer if I had not remembered an earlier story of the Spanish prince. Princesse Élisabeth had been pledged to Don Carlos until King Philip. II decided that he wanted her for himself. My uncles surely did not know that Élisabeth’s letters to me since her marriage to Philip often mentioned Don Carlos
’s “strangeness,” though she professed to care for him nonetheless, in a sisterly way Or perhaps they did know, and they dismissed this trait as unimportant, as one might dismiss crossed eyes or a crooked shoulder.

  The duke and the cardinal stood before me, waiting expectantly for me to agree to the scheme they had proposed, as I always had in the past. I understood now that they had deceived me into signing documents that, had I died while François still lived, would have made Scotland a province of France. I deeply resented their deception.

  “My good uncles,” I said, “I am in no mood to discuss any plans for another marriage. Surely you realize that it is much too soon for any such conversation. But I promise you, when the time is right, a second marriage will be my decision, based entirely on what is best for me and for Scotland.”

  My uncles exchanged dark looks, but they did not give up easily “You are bound to receive many offers, ma chère nièce,” said the duke of Guise. “We do not wish to see you make a serious error in your choice.”

  “I am unlikely to make a serious error, with your help or without it. Let me say it again: the decision, when I make it, will be mine, and mine alone.”

  This did not please my uncles, but I did not care. I was done with pleasing them. I dismissed them, and I wept with relief when they were gone.

  ***

  As my forty days of seclusion drew to an end, I wrote to Grand-Mère asking if she knew of a small château where I could stay for a short while. I need time away from the demands of the French court to collect my thoughts, I explained.

  The messenger returned with her reply, offering me a simple little country house not far from Orléans. I will have it prepared for you. You will find everything you need, including privacy.

  I immediately sent for the Four Maries, who arrived in my mourning chamber subdued but peering at me hopefully. The months since my marriage to François had been difficult for them. Though I had wanted us to enjoy one another’s company as we had as children, I had had a role to play as François’s wife and queen. Games and laughter, rides through the countryside, forays to the kitchens for treats—all of that had been out of the question for a long time. But now it would change.

  “Pack a few simple things,” I told them. “Have your mounts saddled. We leave tomorrow.”

  They stared at me, open-mouthed. “Where are we going, mistress?” asked La Flamin, unsurprisingly the first to find her voice.

  “To the country,” I said, smiling. “To enjoy ourselves.”

  The next morning under a bright January sky, five young women on horseback, followed by a handful of servants, a few carts piled with baggage, and a small royal escort, rode away from Orléans. I breathed deeply, glad to escape the dusky gloom of the château. The horses’ hooves rang on the frozen ground, the branches of the trees glittered with hoarfrost, and yet I felt that everything around me would one day explode again in riotous bloom.

  We arrived at my grandmother’s country house—not as grand as the royal châteaux, but quite lovely—and as she had promised, everything was ready for us. While our horses were led off to the stables and the carts with our baggage were unloaded, we wandered through the rooms, choosing our bedchambers. Fires blazed on every hearth. Tempting smells floated up from the kitchens.

  We passed the days quietly. Every morning I rode my horse, sometimes for hours at a time. Bundled in our furs, we went for long walks; later we dined well. In the evenings we played jeux de tables and read aloud. The verses of Ronsard were always my choice. We wrote our own poems and took turns reading them to one another. Livingston played the lute and taught us new songs, and one evening La Flamin suggested dancing. I played the virginals while the Four Maries executed the court dances we knew so well.

  The subdued gaiety was a balm to my wounded spirits, and I was happier than I had been for some time. I felt as though a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. But I also knew I was facing some important decisions. I tried to make a lighthearted joke of it with my friends.

  “My Guise uncles are shopping for a new husband for me,” I told them as we warmed ourselves by a fire. “It seems that half the men of royal birth in Europe are in the market for a royal bride. Both King Frederick of Denmark and King Eric of Sweden are looking for wives, as are several Italian dukes. Even Henry Stuart, that young cousin who came to my wedding, has been put forward—by his own mother! She sent him to me to personally convey the condolences of his family. He is a handsome lad with a charming manner, but he is just fourteen. My uncles believe that none of these marriages is what they have in mind for me, for none of the men is of sufficiently high rank in an important enough country. They are proposing Don Carlos of Spain.”

  “What your uncles have in mind for you?” asked Beaton, barely masking her distaste for these uncles. “What have you told them, Madame Marie?”

  “I have told them nothing,” I said. “They do not seem to understand non.”

  “But surely it is something you are thinking about,” Livingston commented.

  “Thinking about, yes. But no more than that.” I smiled at them and pushed back my chair, ending the conversation. “Now, let us dance!”

  ***

  By the time the country’s official mourning period for King François II ended in March, I was ready to leave my peaceful retreat near Orléans and to rejoin the court when it moved on to Fontainebleau. On our last day at Grand-Mère’s house, I summoned the steward and told him to send us a group of musicians to entertain us that evening.

  After my friends and I had dined well and talked of many things, I announced to the Four Maries that I had come to an important decision. In the end it had not been difficult.

  “I will leave France,” I told them, “and return to Scotland as the queen. And you, my dearest Maries, will accompany me.”

  Whatever fears I harbored about this new plan, I put aside. I leaned forward, watching their faces. There was a moment of surprised silence and a gasp—probably from La Flamin.

  “You will see your families again,” I added.

  Livingston managed a weak smile. “Oui, certainement,” she said, continuing in French, “but we are all Frenchwomen now, are we not? I scarcely remember the Scots language.”

  “Or indeed anything at all about my home there,” Beaton put in, her voice trembling.

  Seton added quickly, “Naturellement, we are happy to serve you in whatever you decide to do, Madame Marie.”

  I glanced at Marie Fleming, the only one who had not spoken. “And you, La Flamin? Are you happy to go home to Scotland?”

  La Flamin bit her lip and scowled. “Scotland is not my home,” she said. “France is my home. We learned the language, we learned the customs, just as you did, Madame Marie. As Livingston said, we are Frenchwomen now—and so are you!” she concluded passionately.

  Her fervor spread to the others, and soon we were all weeping in one another’s arms.

  I was the first to recover myself. “It is my duty and God’s will that I return to Scotland as her queen,” I told them, dabbing at my eyes with a handkerchief. “The four of you are free to do as you wish—to accompany me to the land of your birth, or to remain in your adopted country.”

  I sat back, hands folded in my lap, and waited through a silence that seemed to go on too long. I had to grip my fingers to stop the trembling. But then Beaton stepped forward, followed by Seton and Livingston, and the three solemnly knelt before me. Only La Flamin held back.

  “What is it, La Flamin? Why do you hesitate? What is it that holds you in France?”

  “I beg your pardon, Madame Marie, but I have fallen in love!” she cried.

  Her announcement seemed to surprise no one but me. “I am your cousin—how could I not know of this?” I asked. “Who is he? What is his name?”

  “Jean-Luc,” she said, her voice trembling. “He is a member of the king’s guard. We would marry, but he has no money and no prospects.” She began to weep.

  “Then we shall
take him to Scotland!” I declared. “We will certainly need guardsmen to accompany us there. The matter is settled.”

  La Flamin’s cheeks dimpled in a broad smile, and she dried her tears and pledged that she too would return to Scotland and would speak to Jean-Luc the minute she saw him again. I thanked them all and clapped my hands and called for the musicians to play for us.

  “Come, come, dear Maries! This is how we shall amuse ourselves in Scotland!”

  Chapter 26

  Adieu, France

  I DID NOT STAY LONG at Fontainebleau but almost at once embarked upon a farewell tour of France. Everywhere I went I was warmly greeted with feasts and hunting parties and various entertainments, and I was made to feel so welcome that it was tempting to think that perhaps I might remain in France. According to my marriage contract, I was entitled to stay or go, as I wished.

  I wavered: Should I take the easier path and stay in France, where I was admired, even loved, but had been stripped of any power? I understood that the opportunity to make the best use of the power that was my birthright lay in another direction: Scotland. My mother had sacrificed everything she had to preserve the Scottish throne for me; she believed it was her duty. Though I would leave France with deep regret, it was my duty to meet the challenge. I looked forward to it with growing excitement.

  While I was moving from one château to another, from one Guise aunt or uncle to the next, I received visits from two Scotsmen from opposing parties. First came a Catholic bishop representing the Scottish Catholics. Then, days later, my brother James Stuart arrived.

  James was now a sober and serious man of thirty. Lord Bothwell had warned me about him: “I am pained to tell you that James Stuart did all he could to depose your lady mother.” The Catholic bishop with whom I had just spoken called him “treacherous.” I was prepared to stand up to my brother in every way possible. I knew that he believed he should be king of the Scots and had been prevented from this only by the accident of his birth, that he was born a bastard to my father and not the royal prince he felt himself to be. James had no doubt that he was better qualified than I to rule Scotland. But I intended to win him over and persuade him to be my chief adviser, and therefore I welcomed him with more warmth than I truly felt.