Mary Queen of Scots (5 page)

January 10, 1554

It is said that the reason we are rushing off to Paris is because Queen Catherine seeks a new astrologer. She is disenchanted with Ruggieri for he had predicted a robust, healthy baby boy before she miscarried. There is talk of another astrologer who is supposed to have immense powers of prediction. He is known as Nostradamus, and it has been arranged for him to be at the Louvre Palace. They even say that he shall occupy the old observatory. That indeed would make him the Queen’s First Astrologer. If Michel Nostradamus can make perfume, Ruggieri will certainly be out of a job.

January 11, 1554

A corsetier has come to take my measurements for new hoops. All of my vasquines seem to have collapsed. They can no longer do the task for which they were made – to expand my skirts. The fabric pools on the floor and nearly causes me to trip, so eight new ones have been ordered. They are to be made with well-tempered metal. Also, we found that although we had checked my dresses, we had forgotten about my shoes. I have outgrown many or danced the soles off. We have ordered ten new pairs. Janet says I cannot wear high heels anymore since I have grown so tall. I love high heels. They sparkle so when one dances, as the cobblers embed small jewels in the heels. I also need some new gloves. I have asked that they be embroidered with harebells and thistle designs, the flowers of my native land.

January 17, 1554
Le Louvre Palace, Paris

Master Clouet the court painter is here working on royal portraits of Princess Elizabeth and Princess Claude. He is so nice to all of us children and always finds time to help us with our drawing. I have decided to do a portrait of Puff and Thimble, and he will help me, he says.

We have heard much about this man Nostradamus. Francis has actually met him and says he is much nicer than Ruggieri. He is a Jew. I do not think I have ever met a Jew. And Francis says he truly has the eyes of a seer. I ask what he means. He says that I must see them for myself. The man’s eyes are beyond description. The four Marys and I are so eager to meet him. Queen Catherine is having him make astrological charts for all her children. I hope he doesn’t say anything about the date when I am to marry Francis. I really do not want to hear anything about that right now.

January 18, 1554

My uncles have arrived to discuss important business with King Henry. It concerns the signing of vital papers that would make my mother the Queen Regent in Scotland until I am eighteen years old – old enough to rule by myself.

King Henry has consulted me about the talks with my uncles. Yes, he came to me just as he would an older ruler. My mother had advised me in a letter I received soon after I got here of her desire to officially make King Henry my guardian along with my uncles de Guises. I must sign these guardian papers before my mother can become my Regent, the person who rules in Scotland while I am a child. The King explained to me just what his guardianship will mean. He is to look after my well-being, ensure that I am well guarded at all times – for indeed when I was nine years old there was a plot to poison me! He also will continue to choose my tutors. But we both know it is really Diane who does that. I practised signing my name all morning before he came because I would hate to dribble ink in some unseemly fashion on such important documents.

Later

The papers are not to be signed yet for some weeks. There is possibly a problem with Lord Arran, I believe. He is also called the Duke of Châtelherault. He is a Lord Governor of the Scottish estates and represents Scotland in France. He at one time hoped that his son would be my bridegroom. Thank heavens that is not to be, for his son is simpleminded.

January 19, 1554

I have at last met Nostradamus. Francis is right. The man’s eyes are indescribable. I expected them to be very dark with piercing glints, but they are a mild grey, and when you look into them they suggest the vastness of the sky. No, not just the sky – the entire cosmos, the firmament and the stars. There is both heaven and Earth in those eyes and maybe hell. But he is kindly and has a gentle way. His beard is long. He has a broad forehead, a straight nose, and steadiness of expression – unlike Ruggieri who has a special look for the Queen, and then what the four Marys and I call his look for children – a mincing smile and a too-sweet voice. I do not like people who have one way of speaking to adults and another to children.

We were visiting the Queen’s apartments. There were several of us – Francis, the four Marys, and all the babies with their nursemaids. Both dance masters were there, Monsieur de Rege and the ballet master, Monsieur Balthazar. Queen Catherine has plans for us to learn a ballet. The visit was quite merry, with lots of cakes and glazed tarts. The babies were whirling about like little spinning tops and at least a dozen lapdogs were yapping. Queen Catherine was in a very fine mood. She did not mind the wildness, the confusion of spilled cups, barking dogs, and flying cake crumbs. Princesses Claude and Elizabeth and I were chasing the babies with feather fans, playing a tickle game that Claude had invented and the babies loved. Nostradamus was sitting close to the Queen, and they were regarding us in the game. She was pointing first to Charles, then Elizabeth, and so on. I was not paying much attention, but the four Marys were near, and suddenly I saw them all grow quite still. Mary Fleming, the most delicate, turned a ghastly white. I thought she might faint. I quickly went up to them. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing!” Mary Beaton said suddenly. “Nothing at all!” She grabbed my feather fan and began chasing little Henry and Claude. It was bedlam. Shrieks of laughter. But I was left wondering. Why did my Marys look so odd? What had Nostradamus whispered to the Queen?

January 20, 1554

I am still unsettled by the four Marys’ behaviour. They seemed false with me at supper tonight, as if they were trying too hard at merriment. I know they are hiding something from me. I shall go to Mary Seton and ask her. She is an honest and direct sort. Indeed she did not join in the false gaiety tonight but remained very quiet.

January 21, 1554

Last night before retiring for bed I went to Mary Seton’s chambers. She was almost ready for bed. Her chambermaid Violette, whom she shares with Mary Livingston, was surprised to see me and Mary even more so.

“What brings you here?” Mary asked, adjusting her nightcap.

I walked right up to her as she stood by her bed and took both her hands in mine and held them firmly. She looked down at her feet in the embroidered night slippers, as if the flowers stitched of blue- and rose-coloured beads were the most interesting things in the world. I laughed softly. “Even in silence you cannot tell a lie, can you, Mary Seton?” Her fingers tightened in my hands. “Look at me, Mary Seton.” My voice was gentle, but it was the command of a Queen to her subject. She would not refuse. Her steady blue eyes looked into mine. They brimmed with tears! “Mary dear, what is it? What did Nostradamus say?”

“Oh, Milady. It cannot be true. Of this I am sure.”

“Just tell me, Mary, and let me be the judge.”

Mary Seton lifted her chin and looked straight at me. “All the children had been running about and Queen Catherine suddenly said to Nostradamus, ‘You have told me of my children, but what about the one from Scotland? Do you perceive any calamity threatening this fair young head?’ And he answered in a very low voice, but we four Marys heard. ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘I perceive blood.’” Mary Seton’s chin began to quiver, and the tears that brimmed in her eyes fell in silvery tracks down her cheek.

How can I describe my feelings? A terrible blackness seemed to well up from the pit of my stomach. I grasped Mary Seton’s hands harder, but then from someplace within me there came a strange and mysterious strength. I knew that I must not succumb to fear or tremors or tears. I must show courage. The blood of William Wallace does not run in my veins, but indeed his spirit invades my heart. I shall be a Braveheart worthy of Scotland. “Rest your fears, Mary Seton, and tell the other Marys to rest theirs. I shall speak with Monsieur Nostradamus myself. And remember, not every prophecy is fulfilled. Perhaps we should be grateful, for it will make us all the more vigilant.”

As this point Mary Seton gasped and fell to her knees. “Your Majesty,” she whispered, “you are a true daughter of Scotland. You are bold of heart and stout of mind. You are a Queen!”

“And you four Marys are the most faithful subjects a Queen could ever have.”

January 22, 1554

Tonight I plan to go to Nostradamus’s observatory. I know that the Queen makes night visits to him and with him observes the position of the stars. But the Queen will not be there tonight, as it is raining and the sky is thick with clouds and shall be starless. I cannot go alone for I am always to be accompanied by a guard. But whom to take? Monsieur Jallet, my
maître d’hôtel
? A wonderful servant but I fear he can be indiscreet. He loves gossip. My footman Alain – he, too, talks too much with all the grooms in the stables. Rufflets is simply too old. I must think on this. Meanwhile Princess Claude, Princess Elizabeth, Mary Livingston, Mary Fleming, and I are required to go to the music room. Queen Catherine is determined to have ballet master Balthazar teach us a ballet she wants us to learn. I am, needless to say, in no mood for ballet. It amazes me that even though I have my own household and can spend my own money I still am treated as a child in many ways. Janet Sinclair says I must be part of this stupid ballet. It would offend the King if I did not participate. We are to play the roles of ancient prophetesses. Ronsard has composed poetry to be accompanied by music from the rebec, and we are to dance these steps. I do not want to pretend to be some prophetess and dance around in a silly costume. It is so tedious, so boring, and all I want to do is see the prophet Nostradamus.

Later

I have had an inspired idea. I shall take no one with me to see Nostradamus. I shall disguise myself as a chambermaid. I have already spoken with Minette. We shall trade clothes for an hour or so. I shall put on her coif, partlets, kirtle, and smock, and whatever else a serving maid wears. I suddenly realize I really don’t know – at least not about the undergarments.

January 23, 1554
Just after midnight

I am waiting now until the ancient guard who stands at the end of the corridor leading from my apartments to the grand salon is asleep. If it were young Robin MacClean, one of my Scots guards, I would not have a chance. But as soon as this old goat nods off, I can cross through the grand salon to the petit salon. There is a small passageway from that room that leads to the observatory. I never knew about this passageway, but Minette told me. She says that it is right behind the statue of King Charlemagne. There is a panel that appears ordinary like all the others in the salon but if I push, it will open. She cautions me that the stairs are steep. What an adventure!

Already just getting into Minette’s clothes has been an adventure. How different they are and not just in appearance. She wears no undergarments, as least hardly any worth mentioning. There is no corseting and no hoops. No underpinnings or true partlets to fill in the neckline of the bodice or to wear over the kirtle. Well, actually there is no kirtle. She wears a loose shift and then she ties two skirts over that and laces up a vest that is scooped into a squarish neck. Instead of a partlet to hide the skin exposed by the bodice, she tucks in a scarf. Then over the two skirts there is an apron.

Not one of these garments has a stitch of decoration or embroidery. Minette’s hair is entirely covered with a soft cap, the kind they call a muffin cap, for it looks as if a muffin or biscuit has plopped down on one’s head. But I must wear it or my red hair would reveal me immediately. Meanwhile Minette has slipped into my nightgown and my bed and is giggling madly. She says she has never felt anything as lovely as my fine cambric nightgown, and I say I have never felt anything as coarse as her carzie wool. I think the sheep this wool came from spent their entire lives in brambles. But now the deepest part of the night comes and Minette says it is safe for me to go. I will take one taper with me. I will go to visit the seer and ask about this blood he sees swirling around my head.

January 24, 1553

I do not quite know what to make of my meeting with Michel Nostradamus. I traversed the great salon, then went into the small one, where indeed behind the statue of Charlemagne I found the panel. The steps were steep as Minette said, but it was a short distance to the bottom. However, it seemed that I threaded my way forever through the narrow, dark tunnel. I suddenly panicked when the flame of my candle began guttering. I should have brought a second one to light from the first, a tinder flint or striking squib. I think my heart would have stopped if I had had no light. It was a dank and scary place to be. I saw the long thin tail of a rat disappear into a crevice. But finally I got to the end, where I mounted some other steps. These steps wound upward and upward in a spiral, and it seemed as if they, like the tunnel, would never end. To my surprise as I wound round the last bend, a door creaked open. There was a wedge of light, and then a large shadow slid out and printed itself against the stone wall. From the shadow came a voice. “I was expecting you, child.” I began to tremble fiercely. “Fear not,” he said, and his voice was so warm and kindly, I was drawn to it like the iron filings I once saw pulled to a magnet in a demonstration by Ruggieri.