Mary Queen of Scots (3 page)

Even before we had our fraction lessons, Diane and I had been riding for three hours. Francis could not come because of his sniffle. She gave me the big chestnut mare to ride for the first time ever. She said I had grown so tall and my legs were now long enough that I could sit well in the saddle. The four Marys came along with us. They are all excellent riders. You see, we spent much time when we were were in Scotland riding the small Scottish ponies that are so perfect for young children. Diane was beautiful on her black mare,
Jais.
She always wears a white riding costume with veils. And she rides hard and fast like a man. The white of her costume swirls over the blackness of the mare. It is like following one of the funnel-shaped clouds that I have heard about that can spout from the sea or whirl over a flat plain.

December 17, 1553

This afternoon I explored Anet. So much has been done to it since we were last here. The King gave Diane the money to begin restoring the beautiful old château that had belonged to her husband, who died many years ago. They have been fixing and building for nearly seven years! The most famous architect in France, Philibert de’l’Orme, has made the new design. The best craftsmen from all over Europe have come here to sculpt statues, to carve wood panels, to paint gilt ceilings, and to etch glass. On every door and gate there is the royal cipher, one that Henry invented. It is two
D
s with their curves interlocking and joined by a crossbar; thus they lace together to make the letters
D
and
H
for Diane and Henry. It is fitting, for although Henry rules France, Diane reigns supreme within the heart of the King. Queen Catherine, however, chooses to believe that the
D
s are really
C
s. Thus she sees
her
name linked with Henry’s. Perhaps it is best for all that she go on believing this. But we know better.

December 20, 1553
Château Blois

Our time at Anet was much too short. I think of it now like a streak in the sky, a comet flashing through the night. That is always of course how I think of Diane. Black and white and silvery, she sparkles constantly on the edge of my brain. And is it not interesting that the King’s guard have a special code name for Diane – Silvius? It fits her perfectly. This is my finest memory of Anet: the last morning we were there I rose early to meet with Diane in the courtyard before our ride. We always meet to wash our faces in the special buckets that she has her chambermaids set out each evening with rainwater collected from the cistern. This last morning when we arrived there was a skim of ice on the water. I hesitated. “It’s the best!” cried Diane, and she plunged her hands into the bucket, cracking the ice and splashing the water on her face. She raised her head, eyes sparkling, cheeks wet and glistening. “
Es tu timide d’un peu glace, Marie
? Are you afraid of a little ice, Mary?” she asked, and I plunged my whole head into the bucket. I heard her roar of laughter even as the water gushed into my ears! I guard this memory as if it were a precious gemstone. I need such memories to survive the court here at Blois. Sometimes, however, I must confess that loving Diane makes me miss my mother even more. It is almost as if I feel guilty about our fun. I think of Mother alone without me in her stony castle in Scotland. I want to write to Mother about the things Diane and I do, but then I think this will make her sad and then I get sad just thinking about it. Must rush off. Will write more later.

Later

Here at Blois there is a stink and all seems dirty compared to Anet, and above the stink there is something worse: the sweet perfume of Queen Catherine. It precedes her wherever she goes. I smell it now. She is coming. Her courtiers scurry ahead like little rodents. I hear the
scritch scratch
of their elegantly booted feet. Their boots are made from the skin of unborn calves. It is an Italian fashion. The Italians love their leather, and of course Catherine de Medici is Italian and was born into what was thought to be a noble family. And yes, I hear as well the
tap tap
of her own high-heeled shoes. Catherine de Medici always wears high heels because she is so short. Then a voice pricks the air.
Tap tap, scritch scratch, yap yap.
That is the “music” of Catherine de Medici. I always count to eight before I let my old Rufflets open the door. One, two, three… The Queen’s own lapdogs, of which there are nearly a dozen, yap at my door.

Fifteen minutes later

Aah! She has left.

The Queen was accompanied by a few of her retinue of Italians, including Signore Cosmo Ruggieri, trailing along in the sickly sweet wake he created. You see, Ruggieri is her perfumer. But he is not just a perfumer like Signore René the Florentine, the other gentleman who creates scents for the Queen. Ruggieri is also skilled in the ancient arts of alchemy. Through his knowledge of chemistry, he transmutes base metals into precious ones like gold. But it is only his perfume of which we have evidence. He has laboratories here at Blois and also at the Louvre Palace in Paris. They are connected by a secret tunnel to the Queen’s apartments, for Queen Catherine insists that the formulas he uses for her perfume be held in complete secrecy.

There are rumours that he makes more than perfume for the Queen. Queen Catherine’s name has forever been twined with that of poison, and here at Blois, in the Queen’s apartments, there is a room known as the Queen’s cabinets with 237 carved panels along the walls. Four of these have secret cupboards for her jewels and state papers, but some say one is used for poisons. You see, it has for many years been rumoured that Catherine de Medici poisoned the King’s older brother, who was the eldest son of old King Francis I. By killing him she cleared the way for her husband, Henry, to become king. Many believe it is not just a rumour, but the truth. Furthermore, the Italians are known for their great knowledge of very subtle poisons.

Signore Ruggieri has the complexion of a man whose face has never seen the light of day or felt the wind on his cheeks. Indeed the man reminds me of a candle. His skin is waxy with a yellowish cast and his nose drips off his face like melting tallow. He is too frightening and makes all our skins crawl, even Mary Beaton, who fears nothing. After the Queen and her courtiers leave there is always an awful stillness in the room. Within minutes of the Queen’s taking leave, Mary Livingston made up the most wicked rhyme about Queen Catherine. I’ll write it down here:

Catherine de Medici, plump and squat,

tells us what is

and what is not.

With her alchemist she dabbles in fate,

arranging destinies,

dispensing hate.

The rhyme gave me a real start, I daresay. I looked into Mary Livingston’s wide grey eyes that remind me always of clear pools of water and said, “Do you think it’s really true?”

“What, Your Majesty?” she asked, suddenly looking alarmed.

“The part about destiny and hate.”

She laughed quickly. “Oh, Mary, they are just words. You know my silly mind just loves to play with words.”

But I don’t think Mary Livingston really knows the power of her own words.

December 21, 1553

I am amazed. I knew I had grown taller this year because none of my clothes fit, and that is why I had a new ball gown made, but I did not realize how tall until I went to the grand ball tonight and danced. Everyone looked short to me – even the King! I was partnered in a pavane first with Monsieur d’un Humaniers, and I looked down onto the small, perfectly round bald patch in the middle of his head. In my bare feet without the heels of my satin slippers, I would be of the same level.

Francis was not allowed to dance any of the fast dances like the galliard. The Queen did not want him to exert himself. However, he did a fine job with the pavanes and the minuets. Francis is not a natural dancer, but pavanes are so easy. Little Mary Seton looked most glorious in the old cloth of silver dress that I had outgrown. I saw Madame de Parois eyeing her, however. She always resents anything I give to the four Marys. She calls them the Savages. She firmly believes that anything from Scotland is rough, wild, and barbaric. We don’t care what she thinks.

December 22, 1553

The best Christmas surprise of all! Ronsard is back! He had been ailing, and we had missed him so at Saint-Germain. But now he is here! Pierre de Ronsard is the finest poet in France and my favourite tutor. We get on so well. There should be a word that describes the kind of sparkle that happens between two good friends. It is as if we have been friends forever, and indeed Ronsard is the only Frenchman in the French court here who has
ever
been to Scotland. Yes, indeed before I was born he had been in Scotland and visited the court of my late father, King James V. He more than anybody understands where I come from and to where I shall someday return to rule as Queen. I think about this often. For when Francis and I marry and when he becomes King of France, there will be two thrones that shall need sitting upon. I wonder how we shall divide our time. Well, I shall not worry about that now. I am off to see Ronsard, for if he is here, my lessons continue no matter if it is Christmas.

Later

It was a pelting icy rain outdoors, but Ronsard and I had a fine time in the library, where it seemed as if the sun were shining. He is quite excited about my having my own household. Of course we worked on Greek poetry. It is his favourite. He tells me of the poems he is writing himself before he tells anyone else. He says I am his confidante. He is devoting himself to perfecting a type of verse in which there are lines of twelve syllables containing four accents. It is very difficult to master. I am not even trying it.

December 24, 1553

These days of Christmas are hard for me. I cannot help but miss my mother more than ever. We begin to fast midafternoon – no evening meal until after Midnight Mass. I grow so hungry, but it is not just my stomach that hungers. It is my heart as well. I think of my mother constantly. I do not know whether to place her at Stirling Castle or Linlithgow. I sense, however, that she might be at the priory on the island of Inchmahome on the north shore of Lake Mentieth. It is only a few hours on horseback from Stirling. It was where they took me after the Scots were defeated at the Battle of Pinkie Cleugh by the English. I was hidden for three weeks. I can almost recall it although I was only four. But I do remember Janet Sinclair waking me up in the middle of the night and telling me – her face a bit too bright, her grey eyes darting nervously – that we were going on an exciting journey. And then I remember the mist on the lake and the monks who seemed to melt out of the mist as our boat approached the shore. The prior himself picked me up in his arms, and it is said I touched his nose and asked why it was so long!

So I try now on this Christmas Eve to fill my stomach and my heart with these memories. I must reach far back to a time that is so dim, to a place that is so distant, and a fine mist that wraps it all. I wonder if the fog will ever lift and if Mother and I shall stand in the sunshine together.

PS Francis just paid a visit. He said he wishes we were not considered too old to set out
sabots,
the wooden shoes we sometimes wear for rough play, for Père Noël to put gifts in. But we are! Christmas Eve is quite grim if you’re not quite a grown-up but not really a child anymore. Oh, we are given gifts, but serious gifts. Francis is worried that he shall get a sword his father once carried and that it will be too heavy for him and that he shall be embarrassed. He pictures himself falling over under the weight of the sword.

December 25, 1553

I am still awake. I have not slept since Midnight Mass. I have been trying to compose a poem – not about Mass. No, about the Orangerie. Christmas Eve held a wonderful surprise. Usually after Mass we all go to the grand salon for
réveillon,
a midnight supper. We are all so hungry that we hurry to the table that is spread with wonderful food. Always a goose gilded in gold leaf, and oysters glistening in their shells, and always a bird with chestnuts. But this year Ronsard beckoned for Francis and me and the four Marys to follow him. We were all starving, but we went anyway.

He took us to the Orangerie. It is a glass house attached to the south wing of the château. Inside, nearly one hundred orange trees and some lemon ones grow throughout the winter warmed by the sun’s heat that is trapped under the glass. It is always exciting to visit in the middle of winter when all the trees outside are bare and there is not a speck of colour on the land. Tonight it was utterly magical, for outside it was snowing. Immense flakes drifted down in lazy dances, and if you stood in the darkness of the Orangerie illuminated only by a curve of the moon, it seemed as if you were caught in a rare place. I became part of the night, inseparable from the snow-swirled darkness and the light of the moon, and the oranges suspended and shining. I forgot my hunger. I forgot my sadness. I did not miss my mother for the first time all day. I just wanted to be here. So now I am trying to make it all into a poem. It is so hard.