Mary Queen of Scots (8 page)

February 19, 1554

The ballet is over. I did quite well for missing so many practices when I was sick. Diane de Poitiers clapped loudly. The Queen looked quite pleased. She had made up many of the steps and the King was very enthusiastic, clapping harder than anyone else. His sister Marguerite de Valois was also in attendance, and she and the King both praised Queen Catherine. I must say the Queen did seem to shine and was as close as she can ever get to beauty and resplendence. There is a rumour that she is expecting again. She is always most happy when she is with child. That is why I suppose she is with child so often – at least seven times since I have come to live here – once with twins but they died as infants. I think it is the one thing that she knows she can do for the King that Diane cannot. Diane is too old to have babies, but she is not too old to be beautiful. But the King paid most attention to the Queen. I think that is how it should be, even though I don’t like the Queen very much. In public I believe he should pay the most attention to the Queen. The four Marys and I discuss this endlessly.

February 20, 1554

Skating today. Lovely ice. Of course twenty footmen and another dozen or so servants had been scraping it and making it perfect for us children. Even with perfect ice Francis had a terrible time. He is so awkward on anything but a horse. The blacksmith from the stables made some tiny blades for the shoes of little Henry and Charles. Mary Seton and I skate around with the babes between our legs. The little boys are quite wobbly. I think it will be awhile before they are sturdy enough to skate on their own. Puff enjoys the ice very much. She skitters about and then has this trick of skidding on her belly. Thimble is simply too little to bring out in this cold.

February 21, 1554

I have been on my knees praying all night. A terrible thing has occurred. Mary Beaton, so strong and bold, might be dying. Here is what happened. We were skating today. Mary Seton and I had the babies between our legs when all of a sudden Puff skidded on her belly across the ice toward one of the bridge pilings where the ice was much thinner. The dog broke through. We heard her desperate barks. Mary Beaton was the closest, without thinking and really just full of good heart, she skated toward the little dog. Before she was even close, the ice cracked and she went under. We all started screaming. We saw Mary surface and grasp for a hold, but the ice broke off. None of us knows how to swim, and if we could it would be impossible with our hoops and kirtles and chemises and cloaks. The guards came with long poles and ropes. They tied the ropes to Robin MacClean, my head guardsman. He and another man crept out across the ice. They did break through, but being on tethers they did not go under. We were all screaming, “Mary! Mary!”

“I can’t find anything,” Robin yelled back. And then very courageously he dove under the ice! He seemed gone for the longest time. When he surfaced he had not Mary but Puff. But where was Mary?

“Tie me! Tie me!” I yelled at another guard. “I must go and find my Mary.”

Then a minute later Robin shouted. “I have her!” Somehow he attached a rope around her waist, and they dragged her up. But her body seemed to be lifeless as Robin MacClean staggered ashore with her in his arms. Her skin was blue and her eyes half shut and I could see only the whites. Someone in the meantime had taken Puff and cried out, “The pup lives.” But in that moment I cared not about Puff at all. I was glad Puff was alive, but I did not know whether my dear Mary Beaton would survive the night.

Nor do I yet. She is unconscious, her breathing ragged. A priest has been called for Last Rites. All I can think is that Mary must not die. How can God save a lapdog and not Mary? I shall not leave Mary’s bedside. I shall keep a vigil all night long.

February 22, 1554

The sky has grown dark. The stars break out. And still Mary is unconscious.

February 23, 1554

Another day and night passes. I cannot stand the yapping of the dogs. I try not to hate Puff.

Later

Dawn creeps in to chase out the night. But no pink tints my Mary’s cheeks. Her breathing is hoarse like the north wind that rasps on the copper sheathing of the roof’s edge. Diane de Poitiers comes to sit with me. She is the only one I shall allow. The other Marys beg to come, but I will not let them. It is too harsh a sight. Robust Mary has grown old before my eyes. Her eyes seem to sink into her head; her skin draws tight over her cheekbones. She already looks skeletal, her head like a skull. Diane holds my hand.

Later still

How to describe this moment? I had been asleep in the chair by Mary Beaton’s bed. Suddenly I felt a myriad of sensations, a feeling of warmth, then a draft, and the sense of a strange presence. I felt first a blade of sunlight fall from a high window and strike my cheek. Then something stirred. My first thought: was it the spirit of Mary crossing over? But then no. A voice, older than time, creaky as a hinge. “Milady.”

“Mary!” Diane gasped. “Mary! She wakes!”

I was suddenly alert. I looked at Mary Beaton. Her eyes were open. Her face flushed. “What has happened?”

“Oh, Mary!” Diane and I both cried and grasped her hands. “Oh, Mary, you’re back.”

“Let me get the other Marys,” Diane said, jumping up.

“Oh, yes, do fetch them. Quick!” I cried.

February 24, 1554

We are so joyous with the return of our Mary Beaton. Mary tells me I must not blame Puff and I guess I don’t, but something has changed in my feelings for the little dog, I am sorry to admit. I think Mary Beaton senses this and in some way so does Puff. She seems to pull toward Mary Beaton like a heavenly sphere toward a sun, just the way Lord Erskine described the theories of Copernicus and his belief of how the planets circle the sun.

February 25, 1554

The river has melted, and I am not at all sad to see the ice go, after all that has happened. Indeed almost overnight it seems as if spring is upon us. The four Marys and I sat in my smaller dining salon at the round table that sits in the curve of the tower, and looked out upon the greening fields beyond the river. We sipped our steaming chocolate and ate the flaky brioche buns with jam. The sunlight streamed in, and it was as if we were caught in a web of golden light. In that moment I realized how fragile life is, and in knowing its frailty it had become all the more precious.

It will take Mary a while to get her strength back. The court is to go to Paris soon, but I am to go first to Meudon, the de Guise château, to visit my mother’s family. Uncle Francis and Aunt Anne’s new babe should be born soon, and there will be a christening. And I shall also visit my grandmother Antoinette, whom I have not seen for many months.

February 27, 1554

The days pass quietly, as none of us Marys want to leave Mary Beaton for a second. So we curtail our outdoor activities. Queen Catherine speaks about another ballet. Lord spare us! However, she spends much time with Ruggieri in his tower, peering into mirrors and crystal balls. You see, Nostradamus has gone back to his home in Salon to the south, where he has a wife and children. We hear that Doctor Nostradamus has very much a mind of his own. He is no sycophant, no self-seeking oily flatterer like Ruggieri. He has told the Queen that he will come to Paris only on certain occasions, but that he must be with his family. We hear that she offered to move his family into luxurious quarters in the Louvre Palace in Paris, but he said no. Nonetheless the Queen needs her seers, especially during her pregnancies, so she relies on Ruggieri in Nostradamus’s absence. I do not understand this. If the seer tells her what will happen, that a child might die in infancy or that she might miscarry and it is fate, what good does it do to know about it in advance? It is my view that such tellers of the future and seers kill hope, and without hope it is nearly impossible to live. Hope is the air that our spirits breathe. Without it our spirits suffocate. Could I go on if I were to know that I may never see my mother again? No, I do not think I could. But I live each day in hope of seeing dear Mother and my birth land again.

February 28, 1554

We found out today that the rumour of Queen Catherine’s pregnancy was not true. Indeed I do believe that she thought she was expecting for a time, for she did seem to glow and now she seems her same grim self. However, I have no doubt that she will soon be with child.

March 1, 1554

The meadows turn a soft green and dissolve into the deeper green of the forest. The swans come out of their winter roosts and sail the river Cher like small galleons. I see a faint lavender mist hovering over a field. It is the thyme about to bloom. I am mightily distracted by these signs and emblems of spring. My Latin master, George Buchanan, frets over my careless translations. My mathematics tutor cannot believe that my mind goes blank when I try to add fractions. Ronsard spoke sharply to me as he explained the complicated metre of an ancient Greek poem. It is Ronsard who jolts me from my reveries. “They say your British cousin Elizabeth, daughter of Henry VIII, is a formidable scholar.”

I blink. “Is she not imprisoned now by her sister, Queen Mary of England?”

“Yes indeed. But there is talk that the Queen suffers and might soon die. And the people love Princess Elizabeth.”

“Do you think that Queen Mary might harm her?”

“I sincerely hope not. For Elizabeth has a wisdom and wit that befits a Queen.”

I immediately settle down to the business of this ancient Greek poem.

March 2, 1554

Father Mamerot has sought me out. He has asked that I examine my conscience in regard to Queen Catherine. He questions me so gently that indeed it makes me feel worse. Perhaps I would do better with one of those harsh confessors who immediately assigns severe penance. But that is not Father Mamerot’s way. He asks that I go deeper. He wonders, Is it pride that makes me behave in a manner that is often rude to Queen Catherine. Is it envy? Never. Perhaps it is pride. I am not sure. I just do not care for her. I must reflect on all this, he told me. I looked up questioningly. He read my mind: “I shall give you no penance because, Mary, until you understand why you do what you do, your rosaries shall not be heard by God.”

March 3, 1554

Mary Beaton is well enough to travel, so the court moves on to Paris, but I wait here for a few days before going to Meudon. I miss the Marys but Diane is here still, and she promises that we shall take a long riding journey through Touraine and spend the night at the convent of the Calvarian sisters and at the abbey of Fontevrault. I look forward to this with great excitement. It shall be just Diane and myself and of course our guards. My Scots guardsmen, however, shall exchange what they are wearing for the simple clothes of French horse grooms and equerries of noble houses. And after this tour I shall go on to Meudon to see Grandmama and my uncles and new baby cousin.

PS I have tried to think about what Father Mamerot has said. But as soon as I try to think about it, other things creep into my mind. It seems so slippery. In one instant I can think, Oh, yes, I shall be much nicer to Queen Catherine, but then I think of her directing us in that ballet. So sure of herself. She is the proud one. And it is not just the ballet. It is the way she encourages her courtiers to fawn about her. The way she declares herself to be the authority, the final word on everything from fashion to food to sculpture to perfume, for goodness’ sakes.

March 4, 1554
The Inn of the Two Ducks near the
Rochereau Forest

This has been so exciting. Diane and I have travelled in disguise with none of the royal standards or emblems. Yes, we have our guards, but to people in the villages and the countryside, we just appear as French noblewomen out for a day’s ride. They do not know how far we go – perhaps to visit relatives in a nearby château – for we travel light. Our
porte-bagages
without clothes can easily be carried on the backs of horses. Here at the Inn of the Two Ducks, which indeed is by a pond with many more than two ducks, we ate the simple fare of country folk: a thick, hearty soup that tasted wonderful after the chill of riding all day, crusty bread, and sausage cut in thick slices. The sausage was the best and I commented to Diane. She said the country folk are very thrifty and use nearly every part of the pig. And then she said the most amusing thing I think I have ever heard. She said that after they have made all their hams and sausages, there is nothing left of the pig but the squeal.

Later

Diane and I share a bed at the inn. She still sleeps, but it is just dawn, and if I sit here by the window with a taper lit, there is enough light for me to write. Diane and I whispered into the night. I mentioned to her about the new ballet that Queen Catherine wants us to perform in the summer at Château Amboise. “How lovely!” Diane said, and I said I did not think it was at all lovely.

And then it just slipped out of me, a question I have long pondered. “Diane, how can you be so nice to the Queen when you are the one who really loves the King and when she, as she so often does, treats you with scorn?”