The Wild Queen (11 page)

“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.

F
OR 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.

As soon as a kitchen staff was in place, I invited my uncle Charles to supper. He oversaw my finances, though I had the freedom to spend money as I wished—giving it to favored servants, to musicians and actors, to the three old men who cared for the royal bears, to anyone who particularly pleased me. I wanted to show Charles my gratitude. I felt very much a grown-up queen when I summoned Giorgio to plan the menu.

“We shall have frittered pears,” I said.

Giorgio acknowledged my order with a bow and asked, “Will there be anything else, Madame Marie?”

I had not thought beyond the pears. When I hesitated, Giorgio said smoothly, “May I suggest canard a l'orange—duck in an orange sauce. It will go nicely with the pears, madame.”

I agreed that it would. Besides, the duck would give me a chance to show off the silver forks I had ordered. I wanted my table to be just as elegant as Queen Catherine's.

Uncle Charles was fond of excellent food and fine wine, and I was proud to be able to offer him both. The canard a l'orange impressed him. So did the peas and other vegetables Giorgio had persuaded me to serve, and we both enjoyed the frittered pears. We discussed the tutors who would be continuing my education, as well as many other matters, and when I knelt to receive my uncle's blessing before he left, I felt that I was truly becoming a woman who could make up her own mind.

***

In 1553, Queen Catherine had given birth to another daughter, Marguerite, whom we all called Margot. Less than two years later another son, Hercule, was born. Then in June of 1556, the queen barely survived the difficult birth of twin girls, Victoire and Jeanne, who died almost as soon as they were born. The queen had borne ten children. Seven were still living. Princesse Élisabeth was the second oldest, after the dauphin, François.

England's sixteen-year-old King Edward VI had died during the summer of 1553, putting an end to King Henri's plans for Princesse Élisabeth to marry him when she came of age. King Henri began to consider other prospective bridegrooms. Though we were both very young, Élisabeth and I often discussed our eventual marriages. My future was entirely settled: I would marry her brother François when the king determined we were old enough. But at the age of eleven, Élisabeth did not yet know her future.

“Papa and Maman discuss it often, but I am not supposed to know about it,” Élisabeth confided to me. “I think they want me to marry a Spanish prince, Philip, provided he does not marry someone else first.” She sighed. “I doubt I shall meet him before the wedding. Not like you, Marie, growing up here with my brother and seeing him almost every day You have even learned to speak French, and beautifully too.”

I saw that her lip was trembling and her blue eyes were swimming with tears. We understood well that neither of us had any say in the choice of a husband. That decision was entirely up to our parents, who were most concerned about making alliances that would benefit our countries. “You will learn to speak Spanish just as easily,” I said, trying to reassure my dear friend. But Élisabeth had begun to weep.

“Philip is so old!” She sobbed. “He is twenty-eight—almost eighteen years older than I am—and he has already been married once. He has a son my age. His wife died.” She dabbed at her eyes. “What if I loathe him?”

“You will not loathe him,” I said as though I knew what I was talking about, but I was thinking,
What if she
does
loathe him?
“I shall come to visit you in Spain if you marry Philip,” I promised, wondering if I could really do that. “And I am sure your father will arrange for you to visit France. But nothing is decided yet, and there may be other prospective bridegrooms that you will find easier to like.”

“Do you think so?” she asked plaintively.

“Of course!” I seized her hand. “Now let us find Giorgio and ask him to make us something delicious.”

T
HE LONGER
I
LIVED
in France, the less I could remember about being a Scot. I spoke French as well as the dauphin and his sisters. I never spoke my native Scots, not even to Sinclair, who had come to understand French well enough, though she was often ridiculed for her strong Scots accent, her rolled
r's
and bitten-off final consonants. “It sounds as though you are choking,” she had been told.

My Four Maries, who were now officially my ladies in waiting, spoke nothing but French, even when we were alone.

Long ago I had abandoned wrapping myself in the traditional Scottish furs and leathers that I had once worn so proudly, partly because I had grown too tall for them, but mostly because I had come to love French fashion.