The Wild Queen (20 page)

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!”

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.

For five days we conferred intensely. The main issue was that he was now a convert to Protestantism and a follower of John Knox, while I was Catholic and would forever remain so. I made it clear to James that I would not attempt to restore the Catholic faith as the official religion of Scotland but would continue to practice my faith in private.

At last we reached an accord.

“All men should live as they please,” I told him. “I believe that with all my heart.”

“And you may hear Mass as many times a day as pleases you at your private chapel in Holyrood Palace,” James assured me, and on this agreeable note, we parted.

 

My servants began packing. Two galleys would be sent for me and my retinue, and more than a dozen additional ships for my possessions, including my stable of horses. The flotilla would be under the command of the earl of Bothwell, who held the title of lord high admiral of Scotland. In July Lord Bothwell, in France to complete arrangements for my journey, called on me. I was somewhat unnerved by his presence, unable to erase the memory of his unexpected—and uninvited—embrace some months earlier.

Nevertheless, I greeted him with what I hoped was friendly composure and inquired about not only his health but his wife's. “And Lady Bothwell?” I asked. “I assume your wife is well?”

“I have no wife as yet, Madame Marie, but I am pledged to marry Anna Throndssen, who asked me to convey to you her best wishes for a safe journey” Then he smoothly steered the course of our conversation in a new direction.

We took up the matter of Queen Elizabeth's refusal to issue me a diplomatic passport through England until I agreed to sign the Treaty of Edinburgh, promising to give up all claims to the English throne. I had dropped my superior claims to the throne, asking only that Elizabeth name me her heir if she were to die childless. But Elizabeth steadfastly refused to agree even to that, and I refused to sign the treaty unless she did.

“Where does the issue now stand, my lady queen?” asked Lord Bothwell.

“I have put off giving the English ambassador a direct answer. I told him that I must consult with my advisers in Scotland first. Meanwhile, should weather conditions or illness or some other reason require me to go ashore in England rather than Scotland, the queen would have the right to order my arrest.”

Bothwell smiled winningly, leaning closer. “You need have no concerns of any kind, my lady. I give you my guarantee that you will arrive in the port of Leith safely and without incident and without the necessity of setting your royal foot on the land of the petulant queen.”

We laughed together, and I thanked him for his attention to my deepest concerns. Our discussion of the particulars of the coming journey was now concluded. Once Lord Bothwell had taken his leave, I felt that the chamber in which we had been talking had grown uncomfortably warm, and I stepped out onto the terrace for a breath of cooler air.