Mary Queen of Scots (6 page)

When I entered the observatory, the doctor, for indeed he is a physician, as I soon learned, was standing beside a tripod that held a brass bowl. I walked directly to it and saw my reflection in the water it held. “What do you see?” he asked.

“My own reflection,” I replied. I peered harder, then suddenly tore off my muffin cap. Tendrils of my hair fanned out around my face.

“And now?” he asked.

“Fire. Not blood,” I said, and I looked into those eyes of his that held the infinity of the sky.

Francis had told me that Nostradamus gave his predictions in the form of the four-line verses we call quatrains. Now he spoke:

Some speak of heaven’s dart,

others the symmetry of the rose.

Some of fire, some of blood,

a life without repose.

“What does it mean?” I asked.

“There is no precise meaning,” he replied.

“No real meaning?” I was astounded.

“The meaning is real but not exact. People want everything to be exact. But trust me when I say that the inexact, the imprecise, is no less real than the exact and the precise.”

“Then it could be blood that swirls around my head, or it could be the petals of a rose – perhaps the red rose of the House of Tudor, my English cousins Elizabeth, Mary, and Edward, their father, Henry VIII – or it could be fire?”

“Yes. But there will be tumult, my dear. There will be chaos and confusion, and there will never be complete repose.”

“But not necessarily blood.”

“Not necessarily.” He nodded and his eyes softened.

I thought on all this for a minute, no more. Then I looked up into the kind face of this man. “That is good enough for me. I am a Queen. I expect to have some hand in making my own destiny, and that of my people of Scotland. And thus I do not expect repose.”

“You are old beyond your years.”

“I have been Queen since I was but nine months old. I have been separated from my mother since I was five, betrothed to a lovely but weak boy since I was four. I have been the cuckoo bird in a very strange nest. Yes, it does make one old beyond one’s years.”

And I turned and left the good man. Left him to his tripod and his bowl of water with its reflections of clouds and stars and red-haired girls who were Queens before their time. I threaded my way back through the tunnels, and indeed my candle did gutter out and I was left in total darkness. I felt myself absorbed into the night. I heard the scutterings of running rats and I might have even heard the
tap tap
of those high-heeled shoes of the merchant’s daughter, but I was not fearful for I am a Queen, a true Queen. I ripped off my servant’s muffin cap and let my hair stream out like rays of sun.

January 26, 1554

I waited until today to tell the four Marys of my visit. They were stunned. “You went there by yourself?” Mary Beaton gasped.

“What did he say?” asked Mary Fleming, her delicate face beautiful and quivering like a small flower in a summer breeze. So I told the Marys all about it. They remained silent for a long moment. Then Mary Beaton dropped on one knee. “Your Majesty, your courage inspires us. I vow that I shall remain by your side whatever the tumult, wherever fortunes good or ill take you, and mostly, although I know you do not like talk of marriage, I vow never to marry before you.”

“Aye… Aye… Aye.” There was a soft chorus of ayes, and the three other Marys dropped to their knees and vowed as well to follow me through tumult and repose and never to marry until I have so done. Did any person have a luckier charm than these four steadfast friends? They are my clover leaf for eternity.

January 27, 1554

We leave for Chambord tomorrow. I must finish my Greek translation of the Anacreon poems for Ronsard. Then I am to try my own hand at writing one in the same metre. I am looking forward to going to Chambord. Francis is beside himself, so excited is he to see once more his favourite horses. The only problem is that it is so complicated whenever the court moves to a different château. There is much packing up to do, and now that I have my own household I must confer with my
maître d’hôtel,
Monsieur Jallet, for hours over what seems like a thousand and one details. We need additional carriages now that we are an independent household, for our servants must ride separately. Some of course ride on horseback, but Rufflets and Monsieur Jallet need their own conveyances. I think they might ride together in one. We also need to provide for an assistant for Madame Moillard, the seamstress. So many new gowns have been ordered for me that she cannot take on all the work in addition to her duties for Queen Catherine. Monsieur Jallet proposed that the assistant ride with the chambermaids, but I don’t think this is appropriate. I think women of stitchery believe themselves to be superior to women of the bedchamber, and this could cause problems. Madame de Parois has demanded her own carriage. Simply ridiculous! There is so much to think about, and all I want to do at this moment is please Ronsard with my translation. I think I shall invite him to ride in my carriage with me to Chambord. Unfortunately, Diane de Poitiers has gone back to Anet for a while. I hope she comes to Chambord for there is such fun to be had there – the hunting and hawking, and there is talk of a very grand ball.

February 1, 1554
Château Chambord

Arrived last night at twilight. It is the best time to first glimpse Chambord. The entire roof of Chambord can be seen from miles away and almost seems like a chessboard with its countless spires and chimneys that stand like chess pieces bristling against the sky. We have – Francis, Claude and Elizabeth, the four Marys, and myself – tried to count the chimneys. Every time we come up with a different number, but there are well over three hundred, of that we are sure. Chambord is like a world within another world. It is hard to believe that contained within the more than twenty miles of walls there is an immense forest park. The château stands in the centre, but the thickets and glades are astir with wolves and wild boar and stag. It is a hunter’s paradise. Before dawn one hears the sound of the horns summoning the dogs into the courtyards. Each blast on the horn is a specific signal for the dogs. Of course, Francis likes best to hunt with his falcons and hawks. He keeps a dozen or more here. There is only one problem. Queen Catherine forbids us to hunt tomorrow. It is Candlemas Day, the celebration of the purification of the Virgin Mary, and the day must be spent in devotion. Then there is the Candlemas feast in the evening. Indeed we must begin a fast tonight. I do not think I would object so much if Queen Catherine’s form of religion did not seem to me so inconstant. Father Confessor Mamerot despairs over her reliance on sorcerers and seers such as Ruggieri and Nostradamus. He once said to me in an unguarded moment that the Queen, as he put it, “rejects the divine truths of scriptural revelations but believes in these soothsayers and starry messengers.” Thus no hunting tomorrow and Francis is very upset. He whines like a baby.

February 2, 1554

Mary Beaton pounced on my bed this morning and shook me. “Up, up! We must get out of doors right now.”

“Why?”

“Mary Stuart!” All four Marys gathered round my bed. Now Mary Livingston raised her voice. “Have you forgotten our dear Scotland? It is not all prayers this Candlemas Day and going about with candles.”

I smacked my forehead with the sudden realization. Indeed I had forgotten. “Quick, Minette, dress me.” Minette came rushing in with my partlets and hoops and corset. Oh, my goodness, I thought. So many layers to put on. I needed to be quick. I remembered the night I visited Nostradamus. How free my body felt in Minette’s clothes without all those underpinnings of partlets and corsets. “Minette, I shall not need my corsets or partlets. Yes, and I think I’ll not wear a kirtle. Just my chemise and overdress and those heavy, thick stockings.”

A silence filled the room. Minette stood with her mouth open. The four Marys looked as if I had gone mad.

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” Mary Seton gasped.

“Of course not, but do you want to get out to the courtyard or not? The sun waits for no one – not even the Queen of the Scots!” I replied.

They all giggled, and quick as a pig dipped in lard I was in my clothes. We roared out of our apartments, which are in the lantern tower. Mary Beaton was singing in Gaelic at the top of her lungs an ancient song sung by old Highland chieftains:

Edward Longshanks, Edward Longshanks,

You come to claim our kin.

Our fair land, our fairer folk

You come to slay again.

But Braveheart will cut you down

And save our children dear

And banish bloody English troops

For he does not know fear.

We passed Madame de Parois on the grand double staircase. A look of horror scored her face. “Savages!” she muttered and pressed herself against the ballustrade.

Out in the courtyard we danced about, looking for our shadows and chanting the Scottish rhyme:

If Candlemas Day is bright and clear

There’ll be two winters in the year.

And then Mary Livingston made up another verse:

And if you see your shadow now

There’ll be snow on your favourite cow.

Janet Sinclair came down and joined us in the courtyard. “Girls, girls! Oh, shadows!” she exclaimed as she saw our dancing ones on the cobbles. “Spring will be here soon!” She joined in our fun and laughed at our antics. But then the dread words: “You must go up now and bathe, girls.” We all groaned. “This is the day of the purification of the Virgin. I shan’t hear of you not bathing. It has been since Saint Stephen’s Day six weeks ago that you had your last bath. Now, go for the honour of the Blessed Virgin.”

Later

After midnight. We fell to the food on the banquet table like ravenous wolves, after fasting all day. Mary Fleming nearly fainted when we walked in procession through the chapel with our lighted candles. That is the custom. This is the part of Candlemas Day I love the most. I wore a dress embroidered all over with silver and pink and violet threads and tiny pearls formed into roses and jasmine and marguerites. To wear the dress was like walking in a garden. On my ears were the double-drop pearl and diamond earrings given to me by my grandmother de Guise. My coif was a masterpiece of whitework embroidery – white linen thread on a white background. I did not want it to glint or shimmer or be studded with jewels. I felt that my headdress should appear humble and most simple, for if the Virgin Mary does look down on me she should not be blinded by the flash of jewels. I come to her humbly with the light of my taper and a bowed head. Queen Catherine and several other women of the court wore their usual court makeup. Some of the Marys tried the whitening pastes for the first time for the banquet afterward, but I came in my own skin and the tint of my own blood and the scroll of the faint blue vein that runs near my temple.

February 3, 1554

Hardly time to write. Francis stamps about impatiently in my receiving salon while I dress in my chamber. We must rush on to see the horses and the dear falcons.

Later

Too tired to write. Hunted and hawked all day. Then went to the archery field and practised with the larger bows under the instructions of my Scots guardsmen. It is known that the Scots are the best archers. I have been advanced to a larger and heavier bow. Robin MacClean, the head guard, praised me and said that he never saw anyone take to this bow faster. Robin is an excellent teacher. He is a big ruddy fellow with the keenest blue eyes and the burr of the Highlands in his voice. I do feel a little bit bad, for Francis is still on the lighter bow. But the fact is I am a good several inches taller than Francis and such a long bow would be most awkward for him. I do wish Francis would grow! Surely he will grow by the time we marry. He is so short that we would look quite silly as a bride and groom standing in front of the priest exchanging our sacred vows. He barely reaches my shoulder now.

February 4, 1554

We went hawking again this afternoon but first we had to have lessons. And unfortunately, we had to rehearse that stupid ballet. Queen Catherine watched it all and interjected her comments. “Children, you must do as Monsieur Balthazar says.” Then she said very grandly, “This is the vocabulary of ballet.” And she demonstrated often herself, pointing that plump little foot, holding up that arm with its sagging flesh, and fixing me with her beady eyes as if to challenge me to refuse her direction.