Mary Queen of Scots (10 page)

March 19, 1554

A letter from Mother and a small package as well. In the package was a paper carefully folded, and when I unfolded it a handkerchief fell out with a scattering of dried petals – petals of heather and harebells, thistle and gorse. It was as if all the Highlands of Scotland had flooded into my room. Just at that moment Janet Sinclair entered. Her eyes widened in great amazement. She looked about as if to catch the wafting breeze of some spirit or sprite that had suddenly stirred the air. Because indeed it felt as if some presence had entered the room. “What is it?” she asked, her eyes darting about my chamber as if to catch a glimpse of this illusive spirit.

“It is this,” I said, and I gathered the petals into the handkerchief and held it out to her. “My mother sent it with the letter I received from her this day.”

She took the handkerchief from me and pressed it to her nose, all the while mumbling softly in Gaelic,
“Michty aye … michty aye (
yes, yes)
… Chuffed
(pleased, delighted)
…
doss
(magic)…” Her words spilled out.

Janet speaks a Gaelic different from mine, so although the words are often similar I do not always understand her. No matter, it was all very Scots. All words to describe that dear rough country from whence we came. She tells me about that land with its craggy headlands and outcroppings, its fields of green stippled with bright yellow gorse, rocky ledges to which the most delicate flowers somehow cling and find a niche to grow. Scotland!

Janet had come in to discuss with me what I would be wearing to the Services of the Shadows, those held in the evening on the Wednesday before Easter. I really loathe the Wednesday service that we all go to at Saint Denis. Queen Catherine insists that we all wear our most dark and sombre clothes. The services are after dark in the cathedral of Saint Denis where many of the French Kings and Queens are buried. After the passage from Matthew is read that describes how one man offered a sponge dipped in vinegar to Christ while he was on the cross, the priest passes through with a cloth soaked in vinegar for us to touch our lips to. We never did this in Scotland. I think it is something that came from Italy with Queen Catherine. Her uncle was, after all, a Pope. But I don’t like it, and it’s not just the sting of the vinegar.

March 21, 1554

Thank heavens the Service of the Shadows is behind me. I am not going back to Saint Denis until Easter Sunday. I am going to pretend that I am sick. I have had some stomach complaints of late and all I have to do is tell Doctor Bourgoing. Doctor Bourgoing is very young and nice, and he might even suspect that I am pretending, for I have done this before when I want to avoid certain occasions, especially those in which Queen Catherine dominates. That cathedral gives me the shivers. I do not know why but here in France they have what I can only describe as a dark practice in the burial of royalty. They cut out the heart of the dead King or Queen or Dauphin. They then embalm the rest of the body and put the heart in a vial filled with strong preservative fluids and place it in the reliquary of the cathedral. I think it is awful being dismembered in such a manner. The idea of going to one’s grave with parts missing is very disturbing to me. I must take this up with my uncles. I do not want this done to me. If I am Queen of Scotland and someday am to be Queen of France, I think as the ruler of two realms I should get to choose how I want to be dealt with after death. If the French object I am just going to say “Bury me in Scotland.” I do remember that still and misty graveyard on the island of Inchmahome in the middle of Lake Mentieth where I was taken after the Battle of Pinkie Cleugh.

When we went to the cathedral for the Service of the Shadows, I took the handkerchief my mother had sent me. The fragrance was still strong, and when they passed the cloth soaked in vinegar, I barely put it to my lips and just afterward pressed the handkerchief to my nose. I closed my eyes and for a few brief seconds I was in a place of no shadows, no dark priest with vinegar cloths, no Kings without hearts. Scotland filled my mind and for a few fleeting seconds I was home.

March 24, 1554

Wonderful news. Lord Erskine tells me that a new music teacher has been hired to replace Monsieur Boulon, who has been ailing all these months. He is to join us at Fontainebleau, for which we leave straight after Easter. I must practise my lute and I would practise the cithara, but I think it is out of tune, and its strings are nearly impossible to tune unless one is an expert. I hope this new teacher, Signore Marcellini, will be able to do it. I do want to ask Lord Erskine about the possibility of having some Scottish musicians sent here to court. Now that I have my own household, I think that we should have the music of Scotland. I would like at least half a dozen bagpipers. The music of the pipes always puts me in the best of humours; I think it balances them. Indeed, I have talked with Doctor Bourgoing about this theory of music and the correct balance of humours. I like Doctor Bourgoing, for he always takes time to explain. Anyhow I think he agrees with me about the humours and the beneficial effects of music.

There are four humours – blood, black bile, phlegm, and yellow bile. These four humours originate in the heart, spleen, brain, and liver. An imbalance can cause a person to be hopeful, or sad, or listless, or quick to anger. I think that I am nicely balanced. Poor Francis, however, shows every sign of an excess of phlegm, thus making him listless, and his mother, Queen Catherine, undoubtedly has a surfeit of yellow bile. She is a bilious person and so quick to anger. The most perfectly balanced person I know is Diane de Poitiers. And I would say the second most perfectly balanced is Mary Beaton. However, I think music would help us all – especially the music of the bagpipers. I would be happy to let them play for Queen Catherine.

March 26, 1554

I am so excited. This evening there was a small concert held in the grand salon and after the performance I was standing talking with Francis, Mary Seton, and Mary Livingston. René the Florentine, one of the perfumers Queen Catherine brought with her from Italy – and who, I might add, is much more agreeable than Ruggieri and many others she brought along – turned toward us and sniffed the air. “I smell an essence most delectable. Is it campanula and…”

“Harebells, Sir. My mother sent me a handkerchief. Here, I keep it knotted in my sleeve.” I withdrew the handkerchief and carefully untied it. The dried bit of heather and harebells and gorse were revealed.

The signore bent over my hand. He has very large nostrils – cavernous nostrils. I was afraid that he might inhale all the bits. But he didn’t. “Your Majesty,” he said, “let me ask the next courier who goes to Scotland to bring back some of these petals. I shall send proper packing materials so they will arrive fresh. Then let me try to brew an
absolue,
an essence from them, and therefore you can always keep fresh that memory of Scotland.” He looked now directly into my eyes.

“How kind,” I said. “I would like that very much.”

I held the handkerchief to my nose and breathed in the now faint scent. Each day it has faded away a bit more. How wonderful to have forever a bottle of this scent if indeed René the Florentine could achieve it. What is it about the way a scent works on one’s mind? It erases the boundaries of time and place. I remember just recently at Grandmama’s smelling the calvados brandy she poured for my uncles, and suddenly I was back in Normandy at Château Saint-Germain. I sniffed at the handkerchief once more. There can, however, be something about a scent that bruises the heart. I think of my mother, and the sharpness of missing her is as fresh as on the day when she left France after her visit nearly three years ago.

March 31, 1554
Château Fontainebleau

Madame de Parois has rejoined us and is as cranky as ever.

I am to have my portrait painted by Clouet. My mother has requested the painting, and although Niccolo dell’Abate has great talent, he is considered much too fanciful for my mother’s or my grandmother’s taste. He poses his subjects in mythological landscapes. Mother wants a full-length portrait of me in front of my Chair of Estate with the Scottish symbols as well as those of the House of Lorraine. I am to wear a dress that my uncles are bringing that was specially made for the portrait. They come tomorrow.

April 1, 1554

The dress that my grandmother sent is of a deadly weight! I do not know how anyone could ever be expected to wear it to a ball. The bodice stiff with jewels must weigh as much as a knight’s armour. I tired after a quarter of an hour of posing. To make matters worse, it has turned unseasonably hot. So all the other children and the four Marys are out playing near the grand fountain for which this château is named. This fountain rises in five great spouts from a natural rock formation, and it is the perfect place to picnic on a hot day. How I would love to be there. Instead I stand in Clouet’s studio here at Fontainebleau in this horrid dress, being tortured. I think I would indeed prefer to stand naked for this portrait than wear this infernal dress. It is not hard to have a solemn look on one’s face. However, Clouet tells me that my look turns sour. I must not appear a sour Queen. Queen Mary of England apparently is a very sour-looking queen, he tells me.

Later

Another session with Clouet. Clouet has much information. I asked him about Queen Mary, who is my cousin. He told me that she has what he describes as a “peculiar” personality. I pressed him. So he told me that she never really forgave her father for divorcing her mother, Catherine of Aragon, and marrying Anne Boleyn. She believes Anne Boleyn was a witch and believes that the daughter of Anne Boleyn and Henry VIII, Princess Elizabeth, my cousin and her half-sister, is a bastard child, and that Mary has imprisoned her! But that is not all. Queen Mary orders Protestants burned to death and anyone else who does not believe in the sacraments of the Catholic Church. I believe fervently in the sacraments of the Catholic Church, and so I despair of this rebel John Knox, who leads the Scottish Reformation and its attempts to rid Scotland of the Catholic Church. But would I burn the man and any others who did not believe in my faith and the sacraments? I think not. No! Most certainly. I not only think not. I know never!

Our discussions during my posing help pass the time. The weight of this jewelled bodice seems light compared with the weight that rests on a crowned head. Someday I shall be called upon to lead my country, and what shall I do with these reformers?

April 9, 1554

Tonight I stand in front of my mirror half naked. The skin on my midriff is blotchy and red with the imprints from the jewelled bodice in which I posed again today. Clouet tells me that once he has the bodice painted I can exchange the dress for something more comfortable. I am perhaps growing accustomed to the weight and the press of this dress. Or perhaps it is that I am mightily distracted by our conversations. I think constantly of this Queen Mary, my cousin. They do indeed call her Bloody Mary. How terrible to be written down in the pages of history with such a name. And when I do not think of her, I think of the imprisoned Princess Elizabeth. Clouet says she is quite beautiful and greatly resembles me with her red hair. Am I prettier? I dare not ask, for that would make me seem vain. But how does this beautiful princess pass her days? She is nearly ten years older than I am, yet I feel a bond. How I would like to meet her someday. I said in the session this morning to Clouet, for I was idly dreaming as he painted me, that perhaps I will write her a letter since we are cousins. I was startled from my dreams by the clatter of a paintbrush. Yes, Clouet dropped his paintbrush to the floor. His eyes opened wide with terror. “Your Majesty, that would be most unwise. Supposing word came of this to Queen Mary? She would immediately suspect a plot against her.”

Of course he is right. How could I be so ignorant? How could I make such a blunder? With the stroke of my pen I could upset the delicate relationship between France and England. I could jeopardize my mother in Scotland. I could jeopardize all my Scots subjects. I am mortified by my own stupidity. My eyes welled with tears. The posing session was halted and I was excused. Now I stand here bare in my stupidity before my mirror, the impression of the jewelled bodice still upon my skin. Will I ever truly be fit to be the Queen I have already been crowned? I must temper my feelings, hold my tongue, and be less impulsive and more considered in my thoughts. I must grow up. I resolve to do this.

April 15, 1554

Perhaps it is a sign, but my uncle the Cardinal came to me today and informed me that I am to begin preparations for my First Communion. What better indication could I have that it is time for me to grow up? Am I ready? I am not sure. Have I sufficiently reflected and examined my conscience? Many things in life have come easily to me. I am skilful with my hawks in the field. I ride expertly. I was quick to master the larger bow. My studies, save for mathematics, do not prove too difficult. But First Communion calls for something quite different from these skills.

April 21, 1554

The new music teacher arrived. His name is Lorenzo Marcellini. He is most odd. He is afflicted with some nervous disorder and seems caught in a web of tics and twitches. He stutters and blinks rapidly. His face is a bit strange as well for he is slightly wall-eyed and his nose takes a sharp bend to the left. Oh well, he does play the cithara beautifully. And when he plays, all his tics and twitchings seem to dissolve. I am eager to resume my musical studies.