An Accidental Tragedy (12 page)

Mary was fifteen and a half years old and has been excused for what can be seen as an act of total betrayal of her country on account of her age and the inevitable reassurances from her uncles that signing the donations was the correct course of action. They had been the supervisors of her education as a princess of France. However, she knew that the representatives of the Lords of the Congregation were in France; she had met her half-brother, Lord James Stewart, and spoken to the commissioners ‘as a woman of age and knowledge’. If she did not understand what she was signing then all the accounts of her precocity are no more than courtly eulogies, though it is certainly clear that she
was all too willing to blindly accept the advice of her uncles. Understandably, in the days immediately before their wedding most brides are often incapable of much rational thought, but Mary was not most brides; she already knew the Dauphin well and had treated him as a younger, rather backward brother to be protected from harm. She had no sexual anticipation. It was a purely dynastic marriage. What is possible is that Mary had become totally French and held little regard for a Scotland she now thought of as an alien country. The historian Allan White says, ‘Scotland for Mary was only a sideshow in the far more exciting arena of European dynastic politics.’ Her future life would be in France as its queen and, since all teenagers appear to believe in their own immortality, making provisions for her affairs after her death was of no consequence to her.

Fifteen days later the ‘handfasting’ or betrothal took place in the great hall of the Louvre as the Cardinal of Lorraine joined the couple’s hands together in public and they formally agreed to marry each other. François obviously adored Mary, but it was the adoration of a schoolboy for his elder sister, and he was clearly no match, physically or mentally, for her. He stuttered and had a tendency to dribble, he was physically clumsy with a twisted spine, giving him a peculiarly lop-sided appearance, and his lack of application to his studies meant that he appeared slow-witted. His stunted growth and vocal abnormality might be explained by primary hypopituitarism, a defect in the growth of the pituitary gland. Another unfortunate effect of this condition is that the Dauphin’s testicles never grew normally; in other words, he was sterile and would breed no future kings.

The couple, who had been closely observed by the court, were affectionate in each other’s company and had their own private jokes and signals, but Mary was looking after her Dauphin in the same way she had cared for her dolls and talked to her ponies when not so very much younger. But on every side she had been told, ‘One day you will marry the Dauphin and one day you will be Queen of France.’ The time for the first step was four days away and Mary Stewart was ready to do her duty.

Henri now wanted to demonstrate as clearly as possible to the world at large that Mary was a bride of France. In an England still reeling from the loss of its last Continental foothold it was presumed that Mary Tudor would die childless; the next in line for the throne was the Protestant Princess Elizabeth. In French eyes she was a bastard and the proper order of succession would be that Mary Stewart should succeed to the English throne. In the meantime, her marriage would give Henri direct control of the Scots armies to use against England. It would also be the first marriage of a Dauphin in Paris for 200 years, and therefore it would be the most spectacular ceremony the king could devise.

Ambassadors came from across Europe. The papal legate, Cardinal Trivulzio, brought messages of goodwill from Rome. All eyes focused on Paris, where the inhabitants had been aware of the forthcoming wedding for some weeks as ‘there was not an artisan who did not have some hard cash for his labour’ and nearly everyone had a friend, neighbour or relative who was a pastry-cook, embroiderer, confectioner or carpenter; the preparations were evident for all to see. Paris had grown greatly from medieval times with Henri’s rebuilding of the old Palace of the Louvre on the eastern fringes and the city itself now spread over both banks of the Seine. The heart of the city was still the ancient Cathedral of Notre Dame on its island and the citizens would have followed with great interest the construction of the temporary buildings in the square facing it.

There was a twelve-foot-high covered walkway or bridge which lead from the Bishop of Paris’s palace to a large platform in front of the west door and then continued into the interior of the cathedral itself. This walkway was decorated with the insignia of Mary and Henri, carpeted with Turkey carpets and covered with blue silk emblazoned with gold fleurs-de-lis. The canopy of the walkway fluttered gently in the breeze on the morning of Sunday, 24 April 1558. The crowd had been assembling from first light, thronging to the foot of the platform, and every available window and roof on the square was packed with locals and their friends, all equipped with plentiful food and wine.

While they waited patiently in the sunshine, watching the colourful Swiss Guard take their positions around the platform and listening to their band, Mary was only a few hundred yards away in the palace of Eustache du Bellay, Bishop of Paris, finishing her dressing and managing to write a hasty letter to her mother. The letter is made doubly charming by being full of mistakes in spelling and grammar – even crowned queens are nervous on their wedding day. She tells Marie that she is one of the happiest ladies on earth to have the king and queen treat her as their own daughter-in-law, and to give her jewels and plate. She hopes that Marie will understand that everything she has done she has done for her sake – although how this justifies her signing the secret ‘donations’ of Fontainebleau is impossible to understand – and she says that the cardinal will write at length with details. She ends by apologising for such a short and badly written letter, explaining that the royal princesses are giving her no peace. At this point she would have been able to hear music coming from the square where the Swiss mercenaries’ flute and drum band was playing as the nobles and ambassadors gathered on the tiered seating arranged for them. It was time for her to join the royal procession.

The aldermen of Paris, in new robes of crimson and yellow satin trimmed with scarlet fur, had met at seven o’clock, and at nine, fortified by wine and accompanied by archers, crossbowmen and musketeers, mounted their mules, also clad in silks, and processed from the Parlement – in today’s Paris, the Courts of Justice – to their seats on the platform. Then, at half past ten, François, Duc de Guise, took charge. He was in his most splendid clothes, a ‘panache’ of white feathers springing from his cap, and was delightedly aware that he was acting as master of ceremonies in place of his still-imprisoned rival, Constable Montmorency.

Consorts of musicians took over from the band of the Swiss Guard and played more elaborately, with trumpets, flutes, oboes, viols and violins. Judges in their robes and members of the Parlement, in scarlet robes with furred hoods, were already on the platform. As the royal procession neared the cathedral,
de Guise signalled for the dignitaries on the platform to go into the church. This cleared the view of the actual wedding for the crowd, which was, after all, the principal purpose of this expensive exercise. The royal procession consisted of a hundred of the gentlemen of the king’s court, followed by the princes of the blood, wearing their coronets and carrying their insignia. The lesser churchmen followed them with jewelled copes and mitres sparkling in the spring sunshine, before elaborate fanfares and choirboys carrying silver candelabra welcomed the archbishops with Mary’s uncle Charles, Cardinal of Lorraine and Cardinal Trivulzio, who had his own large gold crucifix carried in front of him. The Duc de Guise took centre stage and waited for the royal party, led by the Dauphin, who was accompanied by his younger brothers, Charles and Henri. Dauphin François, who hated public pomp, limped and looked as if he would rather be anywhere than standing before the people of Paris. In any case he, like many bridegrooms since, was of no interest to the crowd, who had come especially to the see the Scots queen.

Mary had decided to flout convention and to appear in white – traditionally the French colour of mourning – and she drew gasps and cheers from the crowd. In contrast to the limping Dauphin she walked with great dignity and drew herself up to her full height, smiling to left and right. Her dress had a traditional train held by two maids of honour, and it was encrusted with diamonds; her initial ‘M’ was embroidered with rubies and emeralds and she glittered like a human jewel. Around her neck she wore the ‘Great Harry’, a massive jewelled pendant given to her by Henri. It consisted of the letter ‘H’ encrusted with diamonds and surmounted by three other large diamonds. It was all set in gold and a pigeon’s-egg-sized ruby hung from a gold chain. Unlike the other ladies of the court, Mary wore her hair down, knowing how beautiful it looked and how its girlish simplicity would be seen in contrast to her gold crown, studded with pearls, diamonds, sapphires, rubies and emeralds, and surmounted by a huge carbuncle which was rumoured to have cost over half a million gold crowns. King Henri supported her
right arm and the Duc de Guise held her left. Then, almost as an afterthought, Queen Catherine walked with a crowd of duchesses and ladies in waiting. Most of Catherine’s jewels were in the hands of Diane de Poitiers, who was, of course, nowhere to be seen.

Henri took a ring from his own finger and gave it to the Cardinal Archbishop of Rouen who, in the plain sight of everyone – the princes of the blood, the foreign ambassadors, and the people of Paris – performed the marriage ceremony. France now had a Dauphine. The royal couple then left with the platform party to celebrate Mass in the cathedral, which was also carpeted throughout. High leather chairs had been installed in the choir for the judiciary and legislature while the royal couple knelt on cloth-of-gold cushions.

Outside, the reason for the crowd’s eagerness to be near the platform became clear. At a signal from the Duc de Guise the heralds shouted ‘Largesse’ three times and showers of gold and silver coins were thrown into the crowd. A Scots student gave an account of the mêlée which followed: ‘The gentlemen took their cloaks, gentlewomen their farthingales, merchantmen their gowns, masters in art their hoods, students their peaked caps, and religious men had their scapulars violently riven from their shoulders to gather the showers of money.’ A giant Franciscan friar got more of the money than his neighbours: ‘he kept it as alms to the praise of God and honour of this most godly and triumphant marriage. I was somewhat busy among the rest and got three sous.’ This near riot severely crushed the people at the front of the crowd and they now begged the heralds to stop.

Unaware of all this, Mary and François heard the Bishop of Paris say Mass in the royal chapel and another shower of largesse was thrown across the nave while the nobility tried – unsuccessfully – not to look like avaricious beggars. When the newly-weds emerged from the cathedral they made another circuit of the platform but, unlike their modern equivalents, they did not kiss, although it is said that the roars of the crowd were heard a mile distant in St Denis.

Finally the royal party made the short walk back to the bishop’s palace for a private banquet at which Mary’s crown was held above her head by the chevalier of the chamber, Monsieur de St Sevet. Solid gold crowns are heavy, especially for a sixteen-year-old queen, and Mary knew that her next duty was to dance with her father-in-law. With her hair flowing free, she could dance with enough vigour to show herself at her best, and the court duly cheered their new Dauphine. Her next duty was to dance with her husband, but Henri tactfully led her to his daughter Elisabeth, so the Dauphin’s clumsiness and the disparity in size of the couple would not be made obvious.

All this was exhausting enough but was merely the prologue to the main event of the day. At four o’clock the royal party left the bishop’s palace for a horseback procession to the Palace of the Parlement. Mary and Catherine were carried in a litter with the Cardinals of Lorraine and Bourbon riding beside them, but instead of following the most direct route they turned off the Ile de la Cité onto the right bank of the Seine before returning by the Pont du Change, thereby letting the greatest number of people see their new Dauphine. Back at the palace the king helped Mary dismount, while the Duc de Navarre helped the Dauphin as they processed into the great hall preceded by 200 gentlemen-in-waiting as well as the heralds of France and Scotland. The company sat at a marble table covered by a cloth of gold studded with gems. ‘One had to say that the Elysian Fields would not have been more beautiful or more delightful.’ The king commanded that all Scots be given the password for entrance, but a mob ‘using the guard ungently’ crowded in and, for a moment, there was a near riot. The Scots student reported, ‘After the second service the heralds called “largesse” and were given a gold cup worth 400 crowns. The cup came from the royal cupboard, some twelve degrees or steps in height furnished with all manner of plate of massy gold and silver but the most part gold. But there was [sic.] so many kinds of most excellent music with such dancing, sundry plays and triumphing and so many displays of bravery and princely pastime that I should be over prolix to describe them.’

After supper the tables were cleared and Mary danced again with the Princess Elisabeth. After this dance everyone walked through to the Chamber of Advocates, a heavily gilded room decorated with tapestries depicting the victories of Caesar, where a pageant awaited them. First there was a parade of the seven planets, then twenty-five canvas horses led in a young prince clad in cloth of gold. Two white warhorses drew a triumphal chariot with lutes, harps and citterns, twelve unicorns were ridden by young princes, and a chariot carried in the nine muses. All of this took two hours but it was said that the audience found it too short. More dancing followed, then six ships came in on a sea of silver silk, fanned from beneath to make waves and from above to billow out the silken sails. Each ship had a member of the royal family masked in cloth of gold and as the ships stopped by the tables, the ladies were escorted on board and left the party. Henri escorted Mary; Catherine chose François, and the formal events of the day were over, although the ambassadors and other guests continued revelling until dawn. Next day there were lesser weddings in the cathedral and then Henri held a three-day-long tournament outside the Palais de Tournelles – now the Place des Vosges – half a mile distant on the right bank. The Scot Richard Maitland of Lethington, a minor poet, a civil servant whose son would be Mary’s principal secretary, wrote without any sense of irony: