The Wild Queen Page 8
“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.”
“It is not appropriate for you to wear that necklace to your lessons,” insisted my governess. My maidservant hesitated, looking from one to the other, unsure whom to obey.
“It is my necklace,” I said, “and I shall wear it if I wish.”
I refused to surrender in this battle of wills, and so did my governess. “It is my responsibility to you, your mother, and the royal family of France to see that you are appropriately attired,” she barked, her jaw tightly clenched. “And I am instructing you that the necklace is not appropriate. Kindly remove it at once.”
In a temper I seized a handful of rings and bracelets and defiantly began to put on all of them. Tears were streaming down the cheeks of poor frightened Magdalène, who had no idea what she should do.
“You leave me no choice but to report your willfulness and your disobedience to your lady mother!” The furious woman was seething with righteous anger.
“Comme vous voulez, madame!” I told her in a saucy singsong. “Do as you like!”
“You are becoming a wild thing!” she cried passionately “Your behavior and your speech are unseemly!”
“A wild thing, you say? Then I say, Good! I shall be as wild as you think I am. A wild queen!”
To make my point, I wore the necklace and more than enough rings every day for a week. Meanwhile, Madame de Parois, true to her word, wrote to my mother. I knew this might not end well, and I also wrote to my mother, trying to win her support.
Please, dearest Madame my mother, I wrote beseechingly, pay as little attention as you possibly can to the reports sent to you by my lady governess, Madame de Parois, on the issue of my wardrobe, over which I know that she has full authority, though it would seem such authority is
no longer warranted, as I am now of an age where I may be trusted to make decisions on my own behalf on my manner of dress.
I was not sure my mother would agree that at almost eleven I could be trusted in such matters, and I was sick with worry that my governess’s complaints would cause my mother a great deal of displeasure. Nothing in my life could distress me more than knowing the dearest person on earth, my mother, would love me less because of this thoroughly unpleasant person. What if Madame de Parois reported the conversation in which I had vowed to be a wild queen?
As a result I fell seriously ill—and I was certain my illness was a result of the worry—and I even believed for a time that I might die. And if I did not die, I was convinced that I would not fully recover my health and spirits so long as Madame de Parois was my governess.
In the end I did recover, and Parois remained stubbornly in place. But I could not tolerate the miserable situation much longer.
Chapter 14
A Miserable Situation
FOR THE NEXT TWO YEARS Madame de Parois clung to her position as my governess and continued to find ways to make trouble—some minor and some quite serious.
Queen Catherine, my kind friend and companion during hours spent together over our needlework, suddenly turned cold. I was no longer invited to her apartments. She ignored me. I had no idea why. Had I done something to offend her? I could not imagine what.
Court gossip made its way down to the servants’ dining hall, where my faithful Sinclair learned the actual facts and related them to me. Madame de Parois had been spreading a false rumor about me. She claimed I was overheard speaking ill of Queen Catherine to her rival Diane de Poitiers. The rumor reached the queen, who believed what she was told about my behavior.
It was true that I had become fond of Madame de Poitiers, especially after her kindness to me when my mother left for Scotland at the end of her yearlong visit. To take my mind off my sadness, the duchess had several times invited me to Château d’Anet.
The old square towers of the château had been torn down and replaced by dramatic black and white columns. The intertwined initials H, for Henri, and D, for Diane, and her cipher, three interlaced crescent moons, were to be found everywhere. At the entrance to the château an enormous clock with a hunting scene stood atop the massive gate. Every time the minute hand reached the twelve, a pack of bronze hounds holding a large bronze stag at bay leaped toward the quarry; the stag turned to flee, stopping first to strike the hour with its raised hoof before bounding away from the dogs. I never tired of that marvelous clock and begged to be present as each hour approached.
Anet became a place of enchantment for me, and I was delighted that Madame de Poitiers welcomed me as her guest. But I should have known that Queen Catherine would not be pleased when her young companion of the needle and embroidery silk deserted her for her rival’s magnificent retreat, especially when I learned that Anet had been a gift to the duchess from the king. Naturally, Madame de Parois knew of my excursions from Saint-Germain to Anet—I could go nowhere without her knowledge—and on one of her frequent trips to Paris, my governess launched the rumor that “the little Scottish queen” had become an intimate friend of the king’s mistress. To add spice to her story, Parois claimed that Madame de Poitiers and I passed our time remarking on the queen’s shortcomings—her aging looks, her dreary gowns, even the way she spoke French with an Italian accent. Worst of all, Madame de Parois went about saying that I often referred to Queen Catherine as “the merchant’s daughter,” which I had not, though I had overheard courtiers who disdained the queen speak of her in that way.
“That’s the talk among the servants, my lady,” said Sinclair. “They hear their mistresses gossiping about the gossipers and add a bit to it. You are paying the price for your governess’s wicked tongue, you who have never said an unkind word about Queen Catherine. Sadly, the queen believes what she has been told.”
Sinclair was not fond of Madame de Poitiers, but she heartily disliked Parois. “A person cannot help but feel an ache in her heart for Queen Catherine at having the king’s haughty mistress parade in front of her every hour of the day and night. But Madame de Parois is a shrew and a mischief-maker, and I have long wished her gone.”
The situation caused me great distress, but there was little I could do to mend it. I did complain to my uncles and to my grandmother about my governess’s behavior. But it was not easy to remove such a woman from her perch, to which she clung with all her might.
***
During the year when my body was changing from a child’s to a woman’s, I was also growing quite tall, and by the time I observed my thirteenth birthday, in December of 1555, I had reached nearly six feet in height. Nothing escaped the critical eye and sharp tongue of Madame de Parois.
“A queen does not go about with her shoulders hunched. Your posture must be impeccable, and you are becoming stooped. Stand up straight, Madame Marie!” she commanded. “Shoulders back! Chin up!”
Commands and lectures failed to correct the problem. Every morning Madame de Parois appeared in my chamber with a book or some other object that I was
to balance on top of my head while I walked rigid as a statue up and down the gallery several times, trying not to let the object fall. If it did, I had to start over. This exercise was repeated again later in the day My governess developed a habit of clicking her tongue whenever she caught me slumping. I could be sitting with my tutors or walking in the gardens with the Four Maries or dining with the dauphin, and I would hear a distinct tch-tch, the signal from the dreaded governess that my posture was not perfect.
I must confess, however, that her method was successful. As much as I detested those exercises and hated the click of her tongue, in time I outgrew the slumping, and my posture became truly regal.
***
The tension with Madame de Parois did not resolve itself until at last she left for Paris permanently, claiming that her health no longer permitted her to stay on as my governess. I, too, fell ill rather often and for long periods, and I blamed these bouts of sickness on Parois. But now that I was thirteen, the family finally agreed that I no longer needed a governess and was entitled to my own establishment. From then on two of my uncles—François the soldier and Charles the cardinal—would oversee my education with advice from Grand-Mère, all of whom I loved deeply and whose guidance I would respect and cherish. I enjoyed my increasing independence and looked forward to the day when no one would have any say over me and I would be in charge of my own life.
Having a household of my own was expensive. I already had a wardrobe mistress and two or three maidservants, but now I required men and women to look after my horses and dogs and organize transport during the court’s moves from one château to another, as well as a steward to be in charge of everything.
Most important, to my mind, was a chef to oversee a small kitchen staff. I wanted nothing so much as having Monsieur Matteo on hand to make frittered pears every single night if I wished, but the problems Madame de Parois had created between me and Queen Catherine meant that I did not dare to lure away the queen’s favorite. Then Anne d’Este told me that Monsieur Matteo’s nephew Giorgio had recently arrived from Italy. She brought the young cook to my apartments, and Giorgio immediately agreed to become my chef.