Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (10 page)

"Queen Mary, you are to share a room with the Princesse Elisabeth. It
is the King's wish that you should live like sisters. I myself have
chosen the furnishings, and I hope they are to your liking. Shall you
come and see them now? Perhaps you wish to rest after your journey?"

Used to the debilitation and lassitude of Francois, the Duchesse was
surprised when Mary exclaimed. "Oh, no, I am not tired!" and almost
jumped up and down. But then she added politely, "But I should very
much like to see the furnishings which you have chosen for me,
Madame."

The Duchesse then led them back, through a long, vaulted gallery and up
the main staircase, until at last they reached a suite of apartments
above the second storey that overlooked the long slope down to the
Seine, which shone like a little ribbon in the afternoon sun. It
seemed to Mary that she had never been in such a huge building; the
rooms went on and on, an endless series of doors and entrances
disappearing behind the rustling gown of the Duchesse, which scattered
light like the surface of a liquid, and quivered at each movement.

She showed them into a large, sunny room that was panelled in a tawny
wood.

"Here it is, Your Highness. Your quarters. The royal nursery."

The little beds, one on each side of the room, their frames carved with
birds, leaves, and flowers, were bright with blue and gold hangings.
There were child-sized tables and chairs; mirrors that hung at their
eye level; wool rugs that made the floor as soft as moss. And in one
corner, on a stand, was a wooden model chateau it opened up on hinges
to reveal miniature rooms and furniture inside. Mary rushed over to it
and peeked in its tiny windows. Inside was a magical world, like a
dream.

"Oh, Madame," she said. She could not think of any words to express
her wonder.

"It is yours to play with, and furnish, as you will. Look here are the
dolls that live in it." Diane pointed to a group of figures in the
model courtyard. To Mary's amazement, she recognized herself there.
She picked up the doll, staring at it.

It had real hair, exactly her colour. It wore a hawking costume in
green velvet, exactly like her own. And to the doll's wrist was
attached a faux hawk, made with real feathers, identical in shade to
the one she owned.

"Is it like Ruffles?" The Duchesse was smiling, looking at Mary, and
suddenly Mary felt transported to Heaven, where she was cherished,
safe, and shown wonder after wonder. She did not feel at home, but in
some place infinitely better and more tender. She flung her arms
around the Duchesse's neck and began to cry with excitement and joy.

"Hush, hush, ma petite." The Duchesse smoothed Mary's hair. "No need
to cry." Over Mary's shoulder she motioned to the chamber attendants.
Clearly the little Queen of Scots was overtired from the excitement and
strain of the long journey, and needed to rest, regardless of what she
said. And it was time for the Princesse Elisabeth's nap as well. It
would be good for them to take their rest together.

"How did you know my f-falcon's name?" Mary asked, wondering how that
miracle had come about.

"Why, we know a great deal about you, because everyone in France is
curious about the brave little Queen who had to flee and take refuge
from the English. Here you are already a romantic figure, and we are
all in love with you."

"But Ruffles how did you know;?" Mary persisted.

"From your relatives here, child. Your grandmother Antoinette de
Bourbon, and your mother's brothers, the great Francois and Charles,
Cardinal of Lorraine. They feel as if they know you, as your mother
writes and tells them everything. Soon you will meet them and they
will see you in person."

Mary's own nurse, Jean Sinclair, came forward to help her over to her
bed. "The Princesse Elisabeth needs to rest now, and it would be
polite if you would lie down as well," she said, and Mary, for once,
acquiesced. She was curious to try out the French bed. It had a
gilded stepstool beside it what other wonders did it have?

When all the attendants except her Scottish ones had left, and Mary lay
in the soft bed, with its feather mattress and huge feather pillows,
covered with a white wool blanket, the Duchesse came to draw the bed
curtains "Welcome to France," she whispered, and kissed Mary's
forehead gently. "This is for you." She handed her a satin pillow
stuffed with fragrant herbs. "Put this under your neck and pretend you
are lying down in a spring meadow, watching the clouds drift by,
falling asleep...."

Mary sighed, clutched the scented pillow, and did as the Duchesse said,
giving herself up to a sensual, indulgent sleep.

The next morning Mary awakened to sunlight. She remembered immediately
where she was: in this foreign nursery where everything was
miraculously child-sized. Then she heard murmurs in that new language
that sounded as sweet as the herb-pillow smelled.

"Bonjour, Mesdemoiselles. It is a beautiful day. Come, there is a
surprise for you. The Queen of Scotland's little horses are here!
Dress quickly, and see them!"

Mary's clothes had all been aired, pressed, unpacked, and put away
while she slept. Now Jean Sinclair or Jehan St. Claire, as she was to
be called in France had laid them out for her already.

She and Elisabeth were taken to another room, where breakfast le petit
dejeuner was being served to the Dauphin as well as the four Marys and
the three Stewarts. The table was heaped with baskets of fruit, shiny
loaves of bread with braided designs, and several large round things on
platters, with wedges cut out of them.

Francois was already seated, in a special chair with high legs, and had
helped himself to very little. He was staring at the plate sullenly,
but looked up when Mary came in, and smiled.

The Stewart brothers, James, Robert, and John, eyed the spread
suspiciously.

"What is that?" asked Robert, pointing to the wheel-shaped thing of
pallid color.

"C'est frontage, de Normandie."

"What is that in French?" asked Mary, pointing at a bowl of peaches.

"Peches," said Francois.

"Peches," repeated Mary.

The French laughed at her pronunciation.

"Peches," she repeated, correcting herself. "And this?" She indicated
a jar of fruit jam.

"La confiture," said Francois. He looked pleased with himself; he felt
quite knowledgeable.

"La confiture," she repeated, mimicking the accent well. "And this?"
She picked up a loaf of bread.

"Du pain! Du pain!" chorused the French children.

Taking a sample of everything she named, Mary had soon eaten so much
her stomach felt uncomfortable. But the children had enjoyed the
meal,

and getting to know one another. Now they were anxious to go outside
and see what the Queen of Scotland la Reine d'Ecosse had brought: a
gift of miniature horses.

Out in the courtyard the shaggy little beasts were waiting, saddled and
ready. Mary's own pony, Juno, was there, as well as Lusty's Cinders.
There were a dozen others, all from the isles so far north of the
Scottish mainland, most of them dark brown and all of them with thick,
rough coats.

"You may choose your favourite, my dear Francois," said Mary, gesturing
toward the ponies.

He smiled, not understanding the Scots language, but comprehending the
gesture.

He walked directly to one of the smallest animals, which had a white
star on the forehead.

"I would like that one, s'il vous plait!" he exclaimed. "And I will
call her Marie! In honour of my bride and guest!"

Everyone laughed.

The next few days were spent exploring the Chateau of St.
-Germain-en-Laye in the warm days of August. The flat roof of the
palace had been transformed with trees in tubs and flowers in planters,
with little benches and awnings to make a pleasant place for people to
stroll about and view the countryside and the Seine valley below. The
King planned to build an adjacent palace just on the edge of the slope,
with terraces farther down, which could be reached either directly from
the palace or by long flights of stairs on either side at a lower
level. Construction would begin soon.

The King, though kept away by affairs of state he was inspecting
coveted regions of Italy sent a steady stream of letters north and
assured the new arrivals that he and the Queen would be coming as soon
as events permitted. In the meantime, they were to consider that
Madame the Duchesse de Valentinois was acting entirely on His Majesty's
behalf.

The Duchesse arranged for Mary's relatives, the Guises, to come to meet
her. She also found a Scotsman who was fluent in French to serve as a
permanent translator. It must needs be a Scotsman, as no one but
natives spoke either English or Scots; even the ambassadors posted to
London from France, Spain, and Italy did not speak English. It was a
minor language, utterly insular and useless, and shunned by the
diplomatic community. But some Scotsmen sought service abroad, and
here in France there were bilingual men to be found.

The three most formidable Guises mother and eldest sons came to St.
-Germain in splendour, riding from their Hotel de Guise in Paris. The
old Duchesse Antoinette, mother of twelve children, straight-backed and
straight-natured (she kept her coffin in the gallery outside her room,
so she must see it as she passed to mass every morning), the idol and
loving support of her daughter, Marie de Guise, was dressed, as always,
in black. Her formidable warrior-son, Frangois, called "le Balafre"
from a battle-wound on his cheek, now thirty and the same age as the
King, rode up on a huge chestnut charger. And his younger brother,
Charles, who had crowned Henri II and become a cardinal only five days
later at the age of twenty-three, rode on a silver-bedecked,
crimson-satined mule. Together they were coming, like the Magi, to
view this child in whom they had great hopes this Princess and Queen
who had appeared, like a star in the north, to guide the Guises to
final glory. For, married to the Dauphin, yet knowing her family
loyalty and instructions, must not Mary of Scotland prove to be their
patron saint? And any child she had would be a quarter part Guise and
they would be elevated to the ranks of royalty at last.

True, they claimed descent from Charlemagne, but that was in the
mythical, misty past, and this reputedly clever, pretty little girl was
both the present and future for them, a much more solid thing.. ..

So they took their journey eagerly and made their way up the steep
slope to the chateau, thankful that the usual Guise luck held and they
could meet her before the King and Queen did. Of course there was the
troublesome Madame de Poitiers already installed there and living with
the children, but she was only a reflection, in political terms, of the
King just as her symbol, the moon, emitted no warm light of its own,
and Diana the huntress must always give way to Apollo.

Not that Henri II, that sad, timid, unimaginative man, was any Apollo.
Yet he liked to think himself so, and the court flatterers obliged
him.