Mary Queen of Scots (9 page)

Diane said, “Yes, she sometimes treats me with scorn, but she also listens to me – about you children, about the court, about the King’s advisers – for she knows that the King really loves me.” Then she sighed and said, “The poor thing –
la pauvre.
”

“I cannot believe that you feel sorry for her,” I said.

“To be unloved is not easy.”

“Her children love her.” But it went unspoken that they love Diane more.

Diane then said something very mysterious to me. “You must learn love through being loved.”

“Was Queen Catherine never loved?”

“Both her parents died when she was an infant, not even a month old. She was a cradle orphan. She grew up in terrible danger, for although she was the Duchess of Florence, the Florentines rose up in civil war against the Medicis and assaulted their palace. As a child of eight she was caught in a revolution. They had to take her to a monastery for safety.”

I thought of my own past. Of the great Battle of Pinkie Cleugh and how indeed I had been taken to the monastery of Inchmahome. But I was with my mother and my four Marys. There was always someone nearby who I knew loved me dearly.

“Did she have any friends?” I asked, thinking of the four Marys.

“No. I think not. I think Queen Catherine has never had any friends.”

That is sad. I must find it in my heart to try harder with this difficult woman.

March 5, 1554
Abbey of Fontevrault

Yesterday after leaving the Inn of the Two Ducks we rode here to the Abbey of Fontevrault. We arrived in the evening. We spent the night in what is called the Grand Moustier, which is the convent for the nuns. This is a strange place. One feels the presence of many ghosts – the ghosts of lepers and victims of the most horrible and disfiguring diseases – for once there was a hospital. Also the ghosts of penitent women as well as the ghosts of those women battered and beaten by their husbands or fathers who sought refuge with the nuns. And the ghosts of the Plantagenets, the royal French family of Anjou from which came some of England’s and France’s most illustrious Kings and Queens. Diane and I wandered through the deep shadows of the chapel where the Plantagenets lie in their eternal sleep. We found the tombs of King Henry II, King of both England and France four hundred years ago, and his wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine. She is a heroine of both Diane de Poitier’s and mine. Daring and bold she travelled all the way to Turkey and Palestine on the Second Crusade.

And then there was the tomb of their son Richard the Lionheart, who became King of England and also went to the Holy Land to fight. So I walked amongst these ghosts. And suddenly I had a thought. Suppose I had lived four hundred years ago and by some strange quirk of fate had been sent to the court of Eleanor of Aquitaine to be married to her son Richard. Would I have liked her any better or any less than I do Queen Catherine? She is said to have been very strong-willed. I think perhaps no kingdom can have two Queens, even if the Queens be kind and loving or pliable and retiring.

Tomorrow we go to Chinon and the citadel where Joan of Arc stayed.

March 6, 1554
Convent of the Calvarian Sisters, Chinon

I cannot believe that I ride the same streets that Joan of Arc rode a little more than a hundred years ago. She defended her country and saw that the rightful King was crowned, but then she was captured, called a witch, tried, and burned at the stake. How did she have the courage?

She was a peasant girl who knew not how to read or write, and yet they say she died with grace. How does one learn that?

Diane and I are silent as we ride through Chinon. Our heads swirl with many thoughts and there is something unspeakable about all we think. Here is one thought that I cannot utter but I may write. Had Joan of Arc not been a woman who dared to dress as a man would they have called that person a witch or merely a traitor? Perhaps it does not matter. Either way the person would have died.

March 7, 1554

We have passed two days here in this peaceful convent. I have had much time to reflect. I have not examined my conscience in regard to Queen Catherine as directed by Father Mamerot as much as perhaps I should have. Instead my head is filled with thoughts of Joan of Arc. Her life, her vision. You know that she was finally found innocent of all of which she had been condemned. There is a book here at the convent that Diane showed me. It contains a letter from Joan of Arc’s mother, an official request to the Pope, many years after her daughter was burned, to recognize her daughter’s innocence. Tears sprang to my eyes as I read it. Her letter begins “I had a daughter”, and then she proceeds to tell what a good and devout child her Joan was, and then speaks of her enemies. The trial was indeed finally declared “tainted with fraud”, and Joan of Arc was in death pronounced innocent. But I do not think I have ever read any sadder words than those four of Joan’s mother, Isabelle of Arc, “I had a daughter…” God forbid I should ever say those words.

March 8, 1554
Château Meudon, near Paris

It is wonderful to see Grandmama again. She seems much the same. Although she is of vast age, she never seems any older, not from when I first met her when I came to France six years ago. But I know that she has more than six decades. Her hands are densely wrinkled like crêpe silk. The skin is so thin that the veins show through dark and purple, and they bump up. She always teases me when I come, for she remembers that as a young child I asked her in my very babylike French, “
Madame, pourquois vos mains sont commes les griffes d’un poulet
? (Madame, why are your hands like chicken claws?)” I can hardly imagine that I said that. But I must have, for ever since, Grandmama pulls off her net gloves after kissing me, gives a little chicken cackle, and asks if I want to see her hands. Her eyes are faded and rheumy and I can tell that she has stiffness in her back, but even with all this and her chicken-claw hands there is something young about Grandmama. I think it is her humour, her readiness to laugh. I do not think in truth I have ever heard Catherine de Medici laugh. When I come here, I always know there will be many occasions for laughter. Grandmama can make even my uncles laugh, and they are the most serious men I know.

We do have this time some serious business at Meudon. Now I must finally sign the papers for my mother to become Queen Regent. There is also some unpleasant business to attend to concerning Lord Arran, the Duke of Châtelherault. But first Grandmama wants to show me the improvements made to Meudon.

March 9, 1554

I am very tired. This was not an easy day. I, of course, had to sign the papers that make my mother Queen Regent, but there was the unpleasantness with Lord Arran. It has been discovered that Lord Arran, who was in charge of the treasury, the jewels, and the plate of the estates of Scotland, had been guilty of “defalcations”, which means stealing from the treasury when one is a guardian of that treasury. So first I signed the papers, and then Lord Arran was called in to the grand gallery. I sat in a special chair, the Chair of Estate with the emblems of both my father’s family, the Royal House of Stuart, and my mother’s, the de Guise family, the House of Lorraine. Over the Chair of Estate is the royal canopy. I had rehearsed with my uncles and my grandmama what I was to say. (And to think I had once worried about signing my name and dribbling ink! This was much harder.) But I spoke it well and in a strong voice. “Lord Arran, Duke of Châtelherault, as Queen of the Scots and instrument of the Queen Regent, my mother, I inform you that you are as of this day, this hour, and this minute discharged of your official duties as Lord Governor of the Estates of Scotland and ordered to make restitution to the estates, treasury of the jewels, and plate that you have taken without authority or permission. You are found by the Crown liable and responsible. The Queen Regent in her infinite mercy and the King of France, my own representative in this country, allow that you may keep your titles, but repayment with interest is demanded. Do you accept these requirements?”

“I do, Your Majesty.”

“Go thee to thy confessor and make your peace with our Lord Jesus Christ, our Savior, now that you have made peace with your Queen.”

This was my first royal act. I wish it had not been a “scolding”. I would have liked to have done something grand and wonderful, something that would improve the lot of a nation and not merely reprimand one greedy soul.

I had received from my dear mother a letter counselling me on Lord Arran. This was one that I was not supposed to show to my uncle. So she provided another to show him. It seems my mother feels that there are some treacherous people in the court who might try to intervene and plot on the Lord’s behalf. She cautions me to be aware. As she always does in her letters, she concludes with the words concerning how a sovereign must always proceed with caution and circumspection, and never on sheer impulse.

March 10, 1554

I have written a letter to Mother about the signing of the papers making her the Queen Regent. I sent her my best tidings and told her of my meeting with Lord Arran. I did not want to boast, so I said only that I spoke in a strong, unwavering voice and that Lord Arran accepted our charges with grace and that I then commended him to seek his Father Confessor. I am sure that will please Mother. I told her that we are expecting the birth of a new little cousin any moment and that King Henry and Queen Catherine are intending to come for the christening.

Later

Aunt Anne has begun her lying in. Grandmama therefore cannot go to the grotto with me, as she must attend the birth. I am not allowed. This is most boring for me. I spend my time trying to teach Thimble a trick – jumping through a hoop. He learns it too quickly. What should I teach him next? A Greek poem?

March 11, 1554

Aunt Anne still labours!

Later

Still no baby.

Midnight

A baby boy! He is most adorable. Grandmama came to fetch me. He is plump with cheeks like the rosiest Normandy apples, and he has lots of black hair that sticks straight out from his head. The christening will be in a few days. I hope Francis comes. It seems like forever since I last saw him, and I do miss my Marys but I know they will not be coming.

March 16, 1554

The baby was christened this morning. His name is Charles, and he shall be given the title the Duke of Mayenne. I was permitted a place of honour in the chapel and stood next to my uncle the Cardinal to hold the babe’s cap when it was removed for the Cardinal to sprinkle on the holy water.

I am feeling a bit poorly now, as I think I ate too much at the luncheon. My grandmama’s table is renowned. At least four kinds of birds were served – swan, peacock, capons, and my favourite, heron. There were artichokes and chestnuts cooked with white asparagus. And so many different tarts – plum, apple, custard.

I am trying to improve my manner with the Queen. Would you believe that I even inquired about our ballet master Balthazar? Would one ever imagine that I would dare bring up the subject of ballet? I think even Queen Catherine was surprised. I inquired not only about the ballet master but also Madame de Parois. I
am
trying. It seems to me that there should be something the opposite of confession. One should be able to go and tell of one’s small moral triumphs. But I suppose that would make one guilty of pride – yet another sin to confess. A vicious circle, I suppose.

March 17, 1554

I am so furious with Queen Catherine. I cannot believe what that horrible, insensitive woman did at the banquet table this evening. She sent her
valet de chambre
over to tell Francis to blow his nose more often, “for the good of his health”. Well, it is not for the good of his health to be so corrected in public. That woman has the sensitivity of a wild boar. And she looks like one, too. Poor Francis was mortified. I wished so hard in that instant that my nose would start to run. I would never have wiped it. I would have let it just dribble onto the roasted duck, right over the asparagus, maybe onto the little potatoes, and then I would like to be seized by a huge sneeze and spray all over that Italian merchant’s daughter and blow her right back to Italy. I don’t care if she was orphaned when she was two weeks old. She spent much time with the nuns in a convent. She should have learned some tenderness.

PS I must say that writing something as I just did really makes me feel ever so much better than confession would. I suppose, however, that I shall have to seek out Father Confessor Mamerot when I return with the royal family to Paris and the Louvre Palace tomorrow. It is the beginning of Holy Week. We are always in Paris to celebrate Easter.

March 18, 1554
Le Louvre Palace, Paris

It is so hard to be in Paris as spring begins. It is really not the place to be. Thank heaven the four Marys are here. We may all complain together. Spring in the French countryside is magical. We should be at Chambord, or Chenonceau, or Anet, or Fontainebleau, but not here in this smelly old city. The palace is near the marketplace, and we smell all the awful smells – blood from the meat market and the old rotten vegetables that they keep too long, then throw into garbage heaps in the farmers’ market. And then the street gutters swirl with swill – swill I will not describe, for it would be most indelicate. But you might imagine, for much of Paris does not have proper privies.