Mary Queen of Scots (13 page)

June 18, 1554

Mary Fleming will say nothing. She asked me not to ask her anything and set her mouth firmly. It was as if her face had suddenly turned to stone. There was a steely look in her eye as if she might dare me as her Queen to command her to tell.

June 19, 1554

We have had our first fittings for our costumes. Mary Seton is a shepherdess. Mary Fleming is Titania, a nature sprite and Queen of the Fairies. Many thought I should be Titania, but you see, I am a real Queen and not a fairy one, so I do not think it proper to pretend to be a fantastical Queen. I am a nightingale, and if the story is too sad, well, people can make up another in their heads. Mary Beaton is Puck or sometimes he is called Robin Goodfellow, a mischievous sprite. Mary Livingston is a wood nymph. I love this holiday for it is twined with thoughts of magic and mischief and love – yes, it is a time for lovers and fire. Fire is believed to ensure a good harvest and fertility. In Scotland, farmers lead their sheep through villages and pastures with torches lighted from an immense Midsummer’s bonfire. Some folk jump with their sweethearts over burning coals to prove their love because it is also a festival for lovers.

The four Marys and I plan to follow an ancient practice of which we have heard. We shall fast on the day of Midsummer Eve and lay a table in our apartments here at Anet with a clean cloth, bread, cheese, and wine and leave open our door. It is said that the spirit of the man one is to marry shall enter. Of course, it is not so exciting for me, as I already know whom I am to marry. But I wonder if some magic might happen and suppose I were surprised and it was someone else’s spirit and not Francis’s. Oh dear, I should not write such things. I do love Francis so. But I think it is more exciting not knowing who you are to marry, as I have since I was four years old.

June 21, 1554

Just a moment to write before I begin getting dressed for the masked ball. Oh, what a fine day we’ve had thus far on this Midsummer Eve. Diane herself came in and woke us up at dawn. She insisted that we all go riding to gather the flowers of Midsummer. We picked some mistletoe and bleeding heart, which grows in the thickest part of the forest that surrounds Anet, and then we went to the fields for lupine and cinquefoil and starflower. Diane tells us if we lay these flowers under our pillows on this eve we shall have dreams of love. So we rushed off and tore through the woods and meadows. Even Mary Fleming seemed a bit happier.

June 23, 1554

I can hardly write. Midsummer Night was not the eve of magic and love we so anticipated. If there was any magic, it was most dark indeed. We now know what has caused Mary Fleming’s odd behaviour. Signore Marcellini. For months now he has been trying to force his attentions on poor Mary, and last night as we played our Midsummer Eve games of chase and hide-and-seek through the garden mazes of Anet, he nearly succeeded. He jumped out of the hedge and nearly pounced on Mary Beaton, mistaking her in her costume for Mary Fleming. When he realized his mistake, he apologized lamely and scuttled off through the maze. Mary Beaton says it immediately came to her: there must have been something he said, a look in his eyes, she is not sure, but suddenly she realized that he thought she was Mary Fleming. She now understood Mary Fleming’s anguish and sadness. Quickly she sought out Mary Fleming and took her to her apartment, where Mary said indeed she was right. Mary Beaton then went to fetch me and the other two Marys. We sat down at the very table we had set with the clean cloth, the bread, the cheese, and the wine, except we shut the door and did not leave it open for the spirit of our would-be sweethearts. Indeed as we sat down at the table to hear this horrid story, it struck me that this was a complete perversion of the magic and love that the eve was supposed to celebrate.

Here we sat, five terrified maidens, to hear a lurid tale of a sick old man and how he had made a living hell for our dear Mary Fleming. Luckily he never succeeded in kissing her. It must have been most revolting, but he did try to touch her where he should not. In fact that is how he came to “cut” his hand with a “book knife”. It was not a cut but a bite from Mary’s teeth! I said I would immediately see to having him dismissed. But Mary Fleming protested that he is a favourite of Queen Catherine’s, and that in any case, he would deny everything and then make her look bad and Queen Catherine is already so set against Mary Fleming because of her mother. “Signore Marcellini,” she spoke in a quavering voice, “has told me that this is to be our little secret, and that if I dare say anything, he shall tell everyone that I am just like my mother in my wanton behaviour. And you know how much the Queen hated my mother. Oh, I am finished, Mary,” she cried. “You must send me back to Scotland. It is the only way.”

“Never!” I replied. “Why should you have to pay for his foul behaviour?”

Then Mary Beaton spoke up. Her eyes narrowed in thought as she spoke. “We must catch him. If we witness it, we shall have undeniable evidence.”

We all fell silent, and as I looked around the table at the four Marys, I realized that this was perhaps not simply five young maids all named Mary, but in a sense this was my first council of war. I listened carefully. I was now weighing in my mind what Mary Beaton had said. I could not be impulsive.

I realized that the best sovereigns, whether on the battlefield or in the council of the privy chambers of the estates, make decisions with both their heads and their hearts. Wisdom and justice must always be tempered by the most human of instincts. So I turned to Mary Fleming. “If we proceed in this way, Mary, it will mean more discomfort and anguish for you, at least temporarily. What think you of this?”

“Your Majesty.” The four Marys rarely address me in such a formal way so I knew that indeed I was becoming a sovereign before their eyes. “I have been wrong.”

I cut her off. “You have not been wrong, Mary. You are the victim, not the culprit. It is his shame, not yours.”

“Yes, Your Majesty, I understand, but what I was going to say is that I was wrong in not telling you all, my dearest friends, sooner. My anguish is already relieved for the telling, and now with you beside me I think that I can tolerate this temporary discomfort.”

We all agreed that we would then proceed as Mary Beaton had recommended. We shall try to trap Signore Marcellini.

July 12, 1554
Chambord

We are back at Chambord. So far we have not had an opportunity to lay our trap. The next day after the Midsummer Eve, Signore Marcellini was summoned to Blois by Queen Catherine. Since we have once more settled in here at Chambord he has been seen little. We have had precious few music lessons. Of course, it is the height of summer and our activities are mainly out of doors.

My old hawk Ruffles is ailing. It seems that after his last moult of feathers he contracted some illness. He has unsightly bare spots that we must dab with olive oil to soothe the irritation. Monsieur Gilbert, the hawk master in the mews, is hopeful that old Ruffles shall fly again. Francis is quite dear with Ruffles, bringing him tasty morsels from the kills of his own hawks. And not only that, but he also lets me fly his newest falcon, Sebastian. I think hawking is one of the things that Francis and I do well together. Our instincts combined with those of the birds seem to fit perfectly when we are in the field. We speak very little to each other but silently give the calls to the birds and perform our hand signals. This afternoon the two of us went out with only Robin MacClean as our guard. And I thought as I took a rest on the ridge of a hill that there was something of perfect harmony amongst the three of us and the birds we had brought to fly. If only all of life could be kept in the company of such good souls. But I am blessed with an abundance of good company, for do I not also have the four Marys?

I considered telling Francis about the problem of Signore Marcellini. He would love to be in on the plot to entrap the foul creature, and I daresay he would put a good twist on it – come up with something quite imaginative. But I cannot tell Francis, for it could put him at risk. His mother is always snooping into his business, and he might be forced to say something to her, and then our plans would surely be dashed. The Queen is exceedingly fond of Signore Marcellini. Oh yes, the Queen is most definitely with child. It has been confirmed. The baby will come sometime in early spring. Little Princess Marguerite, who just turned one last May, is becoming the most engaging infant. She is full of charm and smiles and is always of a good nature, unlike little Henry. I cannot understand how the Queen can dote on that boy the way she does. Although he is only three, there is something devious about him.

July 15, 1554

René the Florentine has arrived and brought my perfume! It is perfect. And unlike the Queen I plan to share mine with the four Marys and not simply covet it. I dabbed some on a handkerchief and passed it amongst them, and they all grew misty-eyed. These four girls have come so far from their homeland for so long simply to be with me in my little court, how can I deprive them of this bit of Scotland?

Michel Nostradamus has also arrived to do the astrological charts and predictions for Queen Catherine’s new babe.

July 16, 1554

It seems that all of Scotland is coming to me now. My bagpipers have at last arrived. I plan to give a
petit bal
to celebrate, and the four Marys and I shall wear our new perfume and new gowns. We are devising our trap for Signore Marcellini at the
petit bal.
We have a plan in which Mary Fleming will feign light-headedness and seek some fresh air on a private balcony. We shall already be outside, the four of us hidden behind the huge pots in which the lime trees grow. She plans to do this after the second gavotte – the Burgundian version of the dance requires much jumping about, so one might actually become faint.

July 19, 1554

The
petit bal
was a delight. But our trap did not work. I am wondering if Signore is suspicious. Maybe his encounter with Mary Beaton stopped him. I am not sure. We shall continue to watch for more opportunities.

The bagpipers were excellent and Robin MacClean played with them. Signore Marcellini, of course, hated the music. Queen Catherine came for a brief time and arranged her face into a tense smile as they played. I could see that she did not like the music either. But King Henry loved it. He asked me if he might “borrow the pipers” to entertain the Spanish delegation that is expected shortly. There are more rumours that a match is to be arranged between Princess Elizabeth, or perhaps even Princess Claude, and a member of the Spanish royal family. I worry for them both, as we understand that the Spanish court is quite backward. They lack any refinements of the arts or culture that we enjoy here. Their courts are full of intrigue, and their bishops enjoy excessive amounts of power and are known to be cruel and harsh. It seems that the main business of Spain is the Inquisition and the rooting out of Jews. They devote themselves to this task almost exclusively. I do wonder what these envoys from the Spanish court will think of our court’s Jew, the astrologer Michel Nostradamus. Actually there are many Jews here in the court who fled Spain and now serve the King and Queen.

July 24, 1554

There is a flurry in the court. Rumours of a prophesy by Nostradamus have leaked out and it does not bode well. The expected baby is fine and a brilliant life is predicted. Nostradamus says it a boy. This, of course, makes the Queen very happy. But then people who are privy to the Queen’s innermost circle have reported that the Queen began to press Nostradamus further concerning other predictions, and now it is said that he has prophesied the early death of dear King Henry. It is an obscure quatrain, and I am not sure why it is necessarily interpreted as the death of Henry, but the verse has made its rounds through the court. It goes as follows:

The young lion shall overcome the old one

In martial field by a single duel

In a cage of gold he shall put out his eye

Two wounds from one, then he shall die a cruel death.

The King is said to be mightily upset but not because of his death being predicted. He believes astrologers provide nothing but nonsense. I have heard him say so on many occasions, but he is most worried that it will disturb Queen Catherine and her pregnancy, which has been going so well. He has been most solicitous of the Queen. He did not even come to Anet for the Midsummer Eve ball of Diane de Poitiers, for he knew it would upset the Queen. I hope he doesn’t send Nostradamus away. We quite enjoy him. Mary Beaton and René the Florentine, Nostradamus, and myself have enjoyed several games of tennis in this fine weather.

July 26, 1554

I had the strangest sensation today when I returned to my apartments from riding. I had the feeling that someone had rearranged the things on my writing desk. Of course, I never leave my diary out. Indeed I hide it away in a locked box for which only I have the key. There are certain letters and papers from my mother also in this box.

July 29, 1554

I had the same feeling once more today. I have been thinking hard. Is it my imagination? Feelings, sensations like this are so slippery and yet they can drive you mad. I do not know how anyone could gain access to my apartments. Janet Sinclair has a receiving chamber just outside the apartments. She can see everyone who goes by. Minette, my chambermaid, is the only one with free entry, and she is about most of the time. When she is not tending to me directly, she is tending to my wardrobe, either sewing on buttons or making alterations. The dogs yap at the slightest intrusion, especially Thimble, who has somewhat of a nervous temperament.