Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (19 page)

The Marys dressed Mary in her bridal nightgown and helped her to mount
the steps into the bed. Behind the carved screen, Francois's
attendants were doing the same for him. He emerged in a gown of royal
blue trimmed with fur, and came forward with slow deliberation. Shaking
off their helping hands, he clambered into the bed himself and slid
under the covers.

"We dismiss you," he said grandly, waving his hand. "You, too, Uncle."
He stopped the Cardinal of Lorraine from blessing the bed. The
Cardinal had no choice but to obey.

The door clicked shut, although they both knew full well eavesdroppers
would remain outside listening all night.

Francois put his arms around her and kissed her on the mouth, his
childish plump lips sweet and delicate.

"Now you are mine, and no one can take you away," he said solemnly.
"Like they took away my lapdog and my pet bear."

"The bear caused so much damage," said Mary with a laugh. "Do you
remember when it escaped at Blois? And ran into the house of Madame
Pillonne?"

"Dear Old Julius. I hated it when they took him away," said Francois.
He put his head on her shoulder and cuddled up against her. "He had
such a sweet way about him, such a soft muzzle...." He drifted off to
sleep.

Mary lay for a few moments looking at the moonlight on the floor of the
chamber, before she too fell asleep.

The next morning the Cardinal of Lorraine and the Duc de Guise gave out
the news that the marriage night had been passed "as all expected, all
decently and in order." They went off to their private chambers in
glee, where they clanked goblets and proceeded to get decorously
drunk.

TWELVE

Mary found herself waking up each morning for the next month I saying
to herself, I am married, and wondering why she did not feel different.
She had expected to had thought that some deep inner change would have
taken place. But no she was the same as always. And Francois he was
the same, too. When she called him her husband, it felt like one of
the games they had played when they were younger and would proclaim
themselves pirates, warriors, dragons. Just so it seemed when she
would now refer to "Francois, my husband."

Their lessons continued, but now they had their own household together.
Mary had simply brought all her people with her Madame Rallay, the
Marys, Father Mamerot, Bourgoing and now they lived and worked with
Francois's people, which had already led to a few romances. The larger
household meant they had more privileges and bigger expenses, but it
was a household made up almost entirely of young people, and it had the
effect of being a playhouse in itself.

There was only picnicking, hunting, and riding during the daylight
hours; playacting, dancing, poetry reading, music, and card playing in
the evenings. The only adult incursions into their glowing world of
leisure and youth were the Guises. Mary's uncles visited regularly and
insisted on drawing her aside to question her carefully about her
studies and report on what was happening beyond her golden household.

It was gloomy, unpleasant news, most of it. Wars, killing, plots,
sickness, death. The only happy item they came with was the
announcement that, thanks to the marriage, Scotsmen and Frenchmen now
had dual citizenship.

"Which means that Francois is now, by courtesy, a Scotsman," said Uncle
Cardinal.

Mary had laughed outright. A sudden picture of Francois standing in
the windy courtyard of a Scottish castle had come to her. It was
surprising, this picture; she had not known she remembered such a
castle, and was unsure whether it really existed at all. It was high
up, on a crag.. ..

"And that means you are also a Frenchwoman," he continued.

"I feel like a Frenchwoman, completely," she said.

"Now citizens of each country can pass freely back and forth; no
permission or passports are required. It is the first step in uniting
them permanently."

Mary sighed. "I wonder if that will ever truly come to pass. The
rebels in Scotland seem to grow fiercer and fiercer.. At the thought
of their harassment of her dear mother, her chest ached. Her mother
was holding out bravely, trying to fight them off. But Scotland was a
long way away,

and seemed to have nothing to do with her life here, in the joyous
round of days where cares were unknown or never more than a passing
annoyance, easily solved.

"The day will come, my dear," the Cardinal assured her.

Christmas was coming, and Mary was deeply proud to be able to arrange
for all the festivities in her own household. This year, she and
Francois would have their own Christmas, and invite others to join
them. Perhaps this was really what marriage meant: having your own
home, your own Christmas, rather than being a guest at someone
else's.

A French Christmas! setting out a creche, lighting the biiche de Noel
in a huge fireplace, midnight mass in the royal chapel illuminated with
a thousand candles, programs of sacred music Mary tingled with
excitement in planning it.

And for Francois, a special present; she had ordered an Arab horse for
him from Spain. He had so longed for one, had eagerly recounted for
her the extraordinary features of Arabians: their intelligence, fire,
speed; their delicate bones and large eyes. Oh, he would be so
surprised and beside himself with delight! If the breeder there could
deliver ... if the horse could be brought north safely.. .. Still,
just planning it excited her, thrilled her with her own thoughtfulness
and competence.

It was just before Advent began that Mary received an unexpected
summons to Paris, where Henri II wished to see her.

Why could not the King come here? she wondered. But she obeyed and
left immediately.

When she arrived at the Louvre, still chilled and tired from the
journey, she was summoned to see the King right away. She barely had
time to remove her thick travelling mantle and comb her hair before she
was conducted into his presence.

"Mary Tudor is dead," said Henri II solemnly, crossing himself. "I
stand now in the presence of the new Queen of England." He nodded in
acknowledgment to Mary. "Yes, my child, my daughter. Your good cousin
Mary Tudor has been called to her reward, and she leaves her crown to
you."

How unexpected! How peculiar! And for an instant, Mary hoped it was
not true. If it was, it changed everything, and she did not want
things changed. She was so happy as she was. "Did she name me so?"
asked Mary. Everyone knew that Mary had refused to name her half
sister Elizabeth, both because she distrusted her and because of the
uncertainty about her legitimacy.

"She did not have to," said King Henri. "Blood names you. You inherit
by right of descent."

"Did she name Elizabeth?" Mary persisted.

"The heretics pretend she did. No one heard her no one whose witness
we can trust. Her only confidant, the only one who knew her heart,
Cardinal

Pole, died a mere twelve hours later. Only Cardinal Pole knew that
truth that she could not, would not, have named Elizabeth. No, they
hope to make a fait accompli before anyone can act to prevent them."

"And do you plan to prevent them?" Not a war! Not another war!

Her voice was cool and her questions cooler. Ever since her marriage,
she had been bolder and less deferential. The King blamed her uncles
for that.

"I plan to protest, and see how it is to be received," he replied.

"A protest without troops means little. And I have heard good things
about Elizabeth, and that the people like her."

"Bah! They like any new ruler. They cheered and lit bonfires for
Mary, too. That's the English for you. Within a year they turn
against their sovereign. "The English vice is treachery' "

" "And the French vice is lechery," " she finished the old saw.

This new self-possession was not at all pleasing, thought the King. I
will break her of it.

"You will go into mourning for Queen Mary, and you will quarter the
arms of England on your royal plate, on your cloth of estate, and on
your insignia. Tomorrow there will be a banquet, and I will have the
heralds formally proclaim you Queen of England."

"No."

"Yes. You will obey. I am your King."

"I am an anointed queen in my own right, a fellow sovereign. I am your
equal, not your subject."

The King was infuriated. So this was what her uncles were filling her
head with. As if Scotland were a real country, the equal of France!
The fools!

"You will do as I command you," he said, his already narrow eyes
turning into slits.

"The only command I recognize is the fourth commandment: Honour your
father and mother. I will honour and obey you as my father, which you
are, in law. Not as my superior."

Insolent child! thought the King. She needs to be deflated. But who
will do it? The uncles will prevent it.

"Do as I say, and soon you will be a real queen, queen of a real
country," he said. She was must be! ambitious, and would agree on
that basis. "Just think Queen of England!"

Instead she looked sulky. "I hate falsity," she said. "This is all
founded on falsity and empty gestures."

"But to be a ruler, one must know how to make those gestures," he
insisted. "They are as important as etiquette and law and even battle.
They can sometimes carry as much weight as all three!"

THIRTEEN

His Holiness Pope Paul IV shuffled and sniffled his way to his writing
table at the Vatican. His thin frame shook with what to him was
bone-chilling cold. That was because, at the age of eighty-two, the
ascetic pontiff's bones were very close to his skin. This winter was
not particularly cold, and indeed there were people strolling about in
the great square of St. Peter's with no mantles on. But within the
Papal apartments, no amount of gilding on the paintings or depictions
of desert sands could make him feel warm.

Elizabeth Tudor had chosen January fifteenth for her Coronation, so he
had been informed. It was a very northern thing to do. He supposed
they were used to bitter weather, and even to staging outdoor
ceremonies in it. The letter must reach her before the ceremony; she
must not be anointed and crowned in ignorance of his wishes. No!

He seated himself, and motioned to one of his guards to bring the
brazier closer. He did not need to reread her letter; he knew it by
heart. She was asking for his recognition; that was simple. It was
the answer that had eluded him until now. But now he had it. There
could be, must be, no compromise. A heretic might be on the throne,
but the throne of England was still, officially, Catholic. Thus it
must remain, and she must submit to his arbitration and make obeisance
before he would consider recognizing her.

His spidery fingers grasped his silver-inlaid pen and began writing in
equally spidery calligraphy: