Mary Queen of Scots (14 page)

Later

I disclosed to Mary Beaton my thoughts that my personal things, particularly on my writing desk, have been disturbed. This writing desk goes with me to each château. I am particularly fond of it, and although I keep my most personal correspondence in my locked box, I do have some papers in the drawers here. I explained all this to Mary. She thought for a moment, then suddenly plucked a hair from her head. “What in the name…” I caught myself, for I must not use the Lord’s name in vain. “What are you doing?” I asked as she began to thread the hair through the latch of one of the desk’s small compartments.

“If the hair is broken,” she replied, “you will definitely know someone has been looking in these small drawers and cubbies.” What a wonderful idea! Mary Beaton is so clever. It is truly regrettable that a female can never serve in the Privy Council of a Queen. Mary Beaton would have so much to offer.

August 1, 1554

Ha! The hair has been broken. Someone does tamper with my things. Now to catch the wrongdoer. Mary Beaton suggested that we leave something tantalizing that the person will want to have, some piece of information. Something that we could catch him or her with. I would not put it beyond Madame de Parois to tamper here. She is always so interested in how much the yardage and the embroideries for my gowns cost, and I am given copies of all such bills. But Mary Beaton says no, that the person would not risk the danger of being discovered for the sake of a few bills. There are easier ways to find out such things. I suppose she is right. I hope we are more successful in laying this trap than we were with the one for Signore Marcellini. He has made himself quite scarce of late, and Mary Fleming seems much happier. We go to Blois in a few days. The river is down, so it is not certain that we will be able to go by barge. If indeed we must move by carriages it will be very hot and dusty.

August 7, 1554
Blois

That little brat Henry! He is growing more impossible every day. He pushed the darling Marguerite down a flight of steps and she cut her lip. Luckily Robin MacClean was right by and scooped up Marguerite and took her directly to the nursery. The doctor was called. But when Robin returned, he gave little Henry a good talking to. His Scottish burr crept into his French and thickened it. Little Henry, who is nearly four, screamed and called for his mama. “I am going to tell my mama on you. I shall be King someday and I shall put you in prison.” I stepped forward at that moment and said, “Henry, Francis shall be King and I shall be his Queen and I already am Queen of the Scots, and you must stop this blathering right now and apologize to Robin MacClean.” He ran off wailing.

Robin MacClean winked at me and said, “Thank you, Milady. I fear it’s hopeless with that one.” I fear he is right, but it was almost worth it just for the wink. How my heart did melt. Of course, it was not worth it to have dear little Marguerite’s lip cut. But Marguerite is a plucky child. I really have no fears for her.

August 9, 1554

Mary Beaton and I were discussing how to catch the desk-rifler. I told Mary how my mother sometimes sends me false letters to give to my uncle Francis de Guise, because he is so nosy about our business. I swore her to absolute secrecy. Mary suggested that I take one of the recent false letters and place it in one of the drawers of the writing desk and see if the person takes it. I protested that surely the person would not take it for it would be noticed immediately. Mary said that of course I was right but that there still must be a way. We thought hard but could not come up with anything. If we could just catch the person doing it. “Perhaps,” I said, “we could put something on the paper that would…” I did not complete my thoughts.

“That’s it,” Mary said. “Remember when we were playing tennis with Doctor Nostradamus and he was telling of the invisible powders?”

“But, Mary,” I protested, “we need something visible. Some unmistakable sign that will leave traces and lead us to the culprit.”

Mary jumped up from the plump cushions she sat on. “We don’t know what this might be, but surely Doctor Nostradamus might. We must consult with him immediately.”

I think she is right about this, although I am not sure if Nostradamus will want to become involved. He serves at the favour of the Queen, not me. But I suppose there is no harm in asking.

August 13, 1554

We have sought out Nostradamus, and there is indeed a powder that he can make us. One dampens the paper just slightly with a sponge, not enough to make the ink run. Then the powder is sprinkled on. It immediately dissolves into the paper, and any hands that touch the paper will be streaked with purple in twenty-four to forty-eight hours. We must be careful to douse our own hands in a resinous juice he will give us that comes from Palestine and is called myrrh. This will protect our hands from the powder so they will not turn purple. So we are set to catch a snoop. Such people in my mind are of the same evil rank as hypocrites.

August 15, 1554

Mary Beaton and I have decided on the “bait”, which letters to put into the writing compartment. There is one from my mother that advises me on Lord Arran concerning his fines and punishments. It is precisely the sort of letter a spy might want to lay his hands on. It contains no significant information, which is why she wrote it as a cover for me to show Uncle Francis. The real letter was much more specific and told me whom to beware of in the court and who might be plotting for the benefit of Lord Arran. The second letter I shall use is from me to mother concerning Mary Fleming, in which I write that Mary seems less sad and withdrawn but that I do wish her mother could return to France.

August 16, 1554

The bait has been placed. We have threaded the hair through the latch. We wait.

August 17, 1554

The hair is still unbroken.

August 18, 1554

Still unbroken.

August 19, 1554

Broken! The two letters were replaced exactly as we had left them. Now we wait.

I go for my final fitting for the gown I am to wear to the Pleiades ball. This is the liveliest ball of the season. It celebrates the seven greatest poets of France, known as
la
Pléiade.
The ball is always held in late August for this is the time of the shooting stars, and it seems most fitting to have a grand celebration of these poets. They shall all be here, I think, except for perhaps Jean Antoine de Baif, who suffers from gout. It is an evening that shimmers with starlight and poetry. I plan to wear a white damask gown that is appliquéd with small seed pearls in the form of the constellation of the Pleiades. This was my own idea. At my throat I shall wear the star sapphire brooch given to me by my grandmama. On my head I plan to wear what we call a Scottish cap. It is made of white satin and worn at a tilt so it swoops low on one side. There is a rosette of ostrich feathers sewn on and around the edges are gold letters with my title in Latin,
Mariae, Reginae, Scotorum.
It is my most dazzling costume ever, my homage to the greatest poets in France and, most likely, Europe. I cannot wait for the ball. I have requested that the other four Marys not wear white, but, of course, we shall all wear the wonderful perfume that René devised for us.

The ball is just two days away. I can hardly wait.

August 20, 1554

Twenty-four hours have passed but no one shows purple hands.

August 21, 1554

Forty-eight hours have passed. No, forty-nine, but no traces of purple. I begin to get ready for the ball. It is a lovely evening, but Mary Beaton and I wonder why the powders have not worked.

August 23, 1554

The powders worked! I take not the name of the Lord in vain when I say, My God, how shocked and frightened I was. I must now ask if it was worth it. Never would I have expected the events to unfold as they did and right at the ball at that. My exquisite dress ruined – stained with purple! My dear Mary Fleming’s face bruised with the same purple, the bodice of her dress and the top of her breasts hideously splotched purple, and that is not all! Let me directly as possible relay the events and then reveal the culprit.

All four Marys and I had been at the ball for at least an hour or more. We had dined on fruit ices and sweet pastries that were cut into the shapes of stars. The poets delighted us with recitations. A quadrille had been called and then a gavotte, a Burgundian one. I did not notice, nor did any of us, really, although apparently Mary Fleming thought she had caught Mary Seton’s and Mary Livingston’s eye when she left the ballroom. There was another dance or two and then the Paduan pavane, a favourite of the Italians, as it comes from the city of Padua. Signore Marcellini had taught it to me and I thought nothing of his asking to be my partner. In the Paduan version of the pavane, the gentleman places his right hand on the lady’s waist and spins her slowly clockwise and then anticlockwise before they proceed for sixteen counts side by side, with his hand still on her waist. We did this, and then when the dance was completed I curtsied to Signore Marcellini, as is the custom. He left.

The next dance I was partnered with the poet Joachim Du Bellay. First of all, it must be understood that Du Bellay had arrived only that afternoon and secondly that the dance we did had no touching. We merely faced each other. At the finish as I dipped down in my curtsy I saw these odd streaks across the bodice of my dress. They were purple streaks! The hands that touched my waist had touched the letters! My partner in the last dance, the Paduan pavane, was the snoop, none other than Signore Marcellini!

Just as these separate thoughts began to weave themselves into a web of horror, there was a tiny yelp, almost as if a dog had been stepped on. It was a cry from the balcony off the ballroom. I don’t think many others heard it, but I saw Mary Beaton’s face white with fury. I rushed to the balcony. Mary Beaton dragged me to the shadows where Mary Livingston and Mary Seton stood with their arms around Mary Fleming. Her face was bloodless except for the streaks of purple that slashed like saber marks across one cheek and down her neck to where her bodice had been torn and hung stained with purple. Her lips, too, were purple, making her mouth appear like a squashed blossom.

We all stared at one another and then the girls looked at me. “Your dress, Mary!” Of course, only Mary Beaton knew about the purple powder and the trap we had set to catch the snoop, but we had no idea that the snoop would be the loathsome creature Signore Marcellini! At that moment we saw Signore Marcellini threading his way through the back of the ballroom and furiously peeling off his gloves. But his hands were bright purple, as well! I raced to pick up a glove as it fell. “Mary Beaton,” I said sharply, “explain to the other Marys what is happening. I am off to see Queen Catherine directly.” The Queen had retired earlier.

“Is that wise, Your Majesty?” Mary Beaton bobbed a half curtsy. Did she perhaps mean it was impulsive? Would my mother have counselled me to wait, to reflect before acting? But I could not. I was outraged and the evidence was here. I was told by the Queen’s steward that she was in her panelled cabinet room – the room where behind the 237 carved panels Queen Catherine keeps her jewels, her state papers, and some say her poisons.

Two guards stood outside. “I am here to see the Queen on business of utmost urgency,” I announced.

“She is resting.”

“She must see me.” There was silence. Then from behind me another voice said, “Did you not hear the Queen of Scots?” I wheeled around. It was Robin MacClean. He had followed me. He looked most savage next to these guards in their silken hose and gold-embroidered waistcoats and doublets. Their hats were festooned with feathers, like mine. I despise men in feathers.

They immediately announced me, and I walked through the immense doors. Queen Catherine stood with her back to me. She appeared small and erect. Her head was bowed down as she spoke still with her back to me. “So what do you seek, Little Queen?” She turned slowly around to me. My fist tightened on the glove I held as I saw what the Queen had been looking at with her bowed head. Her own plump fingers were bright purple.

There were really no words exchanged. I merely held up the glove and said, “I believe that this belongs to your spy, Signore Marcellini. He has also left the mark of his lust on the breast and face of Mary Fleming.” The Queen blanched and then sank to the floor.

That is all that I write now. It is an eerie time here in the court.

August 24, 1554

Signore Marcellini has been summarily dismissed. The Queen is believed to be suffering another miscarriage. I now must hope that I am not in some way blamed. Lord Erskine stays by my side ready to advise me in all matters. At this time a letter has also been written to my mother to advise her to release Madame de Parois of her service in my household. She is a troublemaker. Lord Erskine, my dear guardian, tells me that I should have told him immediately of the problem of Signore Marcellini and his harassment of Mary Fleming. It is difficult for me to explain to him why I did not, but there is something so embarrassing about it. I remember when a servant girl, the chambermaid before Minette, had some trouble with a groomsman. It was difficult for me to believe because she was like a mouse and almost frightened of her own shadow. I could never believe that she would have invited someone’s attentions, as people said she had. I didn’t want Mary Fleming to be subjected to this kind of gossip and blame. It seems so unfair. I don’t think she will be, now that everyone knows the truth about Signore Marcellini. Indeed the only person who might inspire blame is myself for agitating Queen Catherine to the point of miscarrying yet again. I pray that I do not invite the wrath of the King. He was at Anet with Diane and is now coming here. I must bide my time until he gets here and pray for his understanding. In the meantime I seek counsel with my Father Confessor. I am surrounded by good people. They love me and they know that I have tried to act with a sense of compassion and integrity in the best interests of innocent people. That is all I can do, God willing.