The Wild Queen (3 page)

But then: trouble. As our mounted guards crossed the drawbridge, it collapsed, carrying men and horses into the moat below, where some surely drowned and others were crushed beneath their mounts. Cries of “Treachery!” went up from the Scots, causing the French lord to shout insults back at them.

Lady Fleming rushed to assure herself that I was unhurt. “It was just an unfortunate accident,” she said soothingly, for I was badly frightened and had begun to weep. “No one meant us any harm.”

Lord Livingston was not convinced. “Perfidious French!” my guardian muttered darkly. “I have never trusted them, and I do not trust them now!”

Once calm had been restored and our safety guaranteed, we entered the town by a different gate and found our way to the church. A Te Deum was sung in thanksgiving for my safe arrival. All seemed peaceful again, but I still felt shaken. I had thought everything would go perfectly, and it had not. For the first time since I left Scotland, I wished desperately that my mother were there to comfort me and reassure me that all would indeed be well.

A
FTER SEVERAL DAYS OF REST
—I was not in the least tired, but the others seemed exhausted—we resumed our journey by land. We were bound for the palace of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, where the children of the king and queen were presently residing. “No doubt to escape the heat of Paris,” Mary Seton explained. “My mother told me that Paris is very hot in summer. Much hotter than Scotland.”

With leather trunks piled on wooden carts, the ladies carried in litters, and the gentlemen mounted on horseback, we traveled first to Nantes, a city at the mouth of the River Loire. It was quite a long procession, several hundred people, and it attracted a lot of attention. In every village through which we passed, I was received with great ceremony and whatever festivities had been arranged. As a mark of respect for me, the doors of the local prison were thrown open by order of the king and the prisoners released.

“Robbers too?” I asked Lord Livingston, who nodded. “And murderers?”

“Aye, and every kind of villain. It is the custom of the French, I am told. We Scots are more likely to hang a blackguard than let him walk away a free man.”

***

Each night we stopped at a convent or at a château, the French word for “palace,” I learned. In Nantes we boarded a luxurious riverboat
—bateau de rivière—that
moved smoothly upriver, passing densely wooded forests, handsome châteaux, and neat little villages. If all of France was as beautiful as this lovely river valley, so different from the ruggedness of my homeland, I would surely be proud to be its queen.

“How delightful to be on a pretty boat on such a pretty river with no huge waves trying to drown us!” remarked Lady Fleming, who had quickly recovered herself and was again in bright spirits. All agreed that traveling by
bateau de rivière
was much superior to being blown about at sea, and we cheerfully returned to the singing and dancing and games we enjoyed. There seemed to be no rush to reach Saint-Germain.

But our pleasure came to a quick end when, one by one, the gentlemen in my company began to fall desperately ill. The first was Lord Erskine, followed within hours by Lord Livingston. Both of my guardians were much too ill to go ashore, and though physicians came aboard the riverboat to bleed the patients, they suffered greatly, raving from fevers and shivering, though the day was hot. No one knew the cause of the illness. Poor Mary Livingston sat by her father's bedside hour after hour while he hovered between life and death. All those on board prayed for his recovery. We also prayed that we might be spared the same unhappy fate.

Not all prayers were answered. Next Mary Seton's younger brother Robbie was stricken. After one feverish day and night he was dead. Mary Seton was inconsolable. Little Robbie's body was carried to a nearby church, Mass was sung for the peace of his young soul, and he was buried in a grave far from home. We shed tears for Robbie, a bonnie lad everyone had dearly cherished. This was the closest I had ever been to the death of someone I loved, and I was deeply shaken by the experience.

Downcast, we continued our journey, praying that no one else would be taken from us. For some reason, all the women and girls in my party were spared, but my two guardians as well as several other men still languished. Perhaps it was God's mercy that saved us. Or perhaps, as my nurse, Sinclair, suggested, it was because we are the hardier sex.

***

Despite these early trials, I eagerly looked forward to our arrival in Tours, where I was to meet my grandmother Antoinette, duchess of Guise, and my grandfather Claude, duke of Joinville. As the boat nosed close to the dock, Mary Fleming was first to see them. “Look,” she said, pointing, “I think those old people are your grandparents. Shall we wave to them?”

I knew at once that the stately female figure, elegantly dressed and attended by liveried servants, was my grandmother. Beside her, my grandfather stood straight as a ship's mast. I hesitated, not sure what was the proper thing to do, but La Flamin was already leaning over the rail and waving, first one hand, then the other, then both, to attract their attention.

Musicians played, and servants helped my grandparents to board the riverboat. My grandmother took a long moment to look over the group eagerly waiting to greet them, including me and the Four Maries.
Why is she frowning?
I wondered, but as I stepped forward, my grandmother's frown melted into a smile. She swept me into her embrace while my grandfather beamed.

Both grandparents spoke to me rapidly in French, and I judged from the tone of their voices as well as their expressions and gestures that they were very happy to see me, but I understood only a bit of what they actually said.
“Bonjour,
Grand-Mère.
Bonjour,
Grand-Père,” I murmured and repeated the greeting I had practiced:
“Je suis très heureuse de vous voir
I hoped it meant “I am very happy to see you,” though I was not sure if I had gotten it right.

“Non, non, non!”
Grand-Mère frowned again. She carefully repeated my words, but somehow they sounded different on her lips. Grand-Père gently tugged her sleeve, gesturing that she must proceed slowly.

Grand-Mère turned her attention to the Four Maries, who were hovering nearby, staring wide-eyed at my regal grandparents. Grand-Mère's frown deepened. She spoke to each girl as she was presented. Only Mary Fleming stepped forward boldly and made a deep
révérence,
bending her knees and bowing her head; I cannot think how she learned it, as it was not then the custom in Scotland.

The other three Maries anxiously turned their eyes toward me. I did not know what to say, but Grand-Père came to the rescue, gallantly bowing to each of my friends and greeting her by name.
“Bonjour,
Mademoiselle Marie!” They rewarded him with grateful smiles.

Once my grandparents' entourage and their baggage had been brought aboard, our river journey continued on to Orléans. Grand-Mère devoted herself to my wardrobe, my language, and my habits. She decreed that I must forgo my usual breakfast of oat porridge with fresh cream, which had been prepared for me every morning of my life by Sinclair, and ordered that I have hot milk and a delicate pastry instead. We spent hours going through my leather trunks, my servants unpacking them one by one while my grandmother critically inspected each item.

“Those things that you will be allowed to keep are to be put here,” she said, pointing to a small table on her right, “and the rest, which will be given away, over here.” A much larger table on the left was for the discards. Some gowns were not even deemed fit to try on. “À
gauche!”
she would announce haughtily. “To the left!”

Most of the gowns that were sent to the left were not poorly made; they were merely not equal to the standards of fashion she had for an almost-six-year-old queen. Most of my shoes she judged sturdy but too clumsy, and away they went.

“You are already growing tall,
ma chère
Marie. Your uncles, like your dear
maman,
are all very tall. Like your
grand-père,”
she added, nodding toward my grandfather, who beamed proudly as he watched the proceedings. “The child is a Guise, that much is plain to see,” Grand-Mère liked to point out to anyone who would listen.

She loved to compare me to my mother, how my auburn hair was like my mother's, my complexion delicate and white like hers. My face was well formed, she decided, adding thoughtfully, “but your chin
is
a trifle long. Perhaps I should not tell you this,
ma chère
Marie, for I do not want it to turn your head, but I believe you will someday be a great beauty—perhaps even greater than your
maman.
And that is saying a good deal.”

During my first weeks in France I understood scarcely anything Grand-Mère said and relied mostly on her eloquent gestures. But I did have what my tutors called a good ear, and soon I was picking up much of what was said, though I was much slower in learning to speak it.

It was obvious that my grandmother was not favorably impressed by the Four Maries. She shocked me by speaking of them as
les petites sauvages—“the
little savages.” “They are ill-looking and certainly not even as clean as they might be,” she complained to Grand-Père, who waved away her complaints.

“They are children,” he replied. “And they are beautiful, all of them.”

Grand-Père must have sensed that I was troubled, for he did his best to comfort me with gestures and simple words. I believed he was trying to convey to me that my grandmother had strong opinions, and I must not let it bother me.

***

When the riverboat reached the city of Orléans, our trunks were again loaded onto wooden carts for the last part of the journey. There were not as many trunks, I noticed (we were counting them again, and I enjoyed showing off to my friends that I could now do it in French:
un, deux, trois, quatre
...). The silk and velvet gowns that my grandmother had decided were not suitable would be delivered to a convent where one of my Guise aunts was the abbess. Grand Mère promised that the nuns would salvage what they could and make them into altar hangings, and the plain woolen dresses I wore for every day would be distributed to the deserving poor. Not many of my gowns had survived Grand-Mère's critical eye.

Only one outfit became a source of real disagreement between us: the furs and leathers that made up the traditional dress of the Lowland Scots. I stubbornly refused to part with them.

“Surely you do not want to keep them, Marie,” said Grand-Mère with a little grimace.

“
Oui!”
I cried.
“Je vous en prie!
I beg you!” I had learned enough French to plead with her.

She sniffed, pointed to her nose, made a face, and turned away The costume did have a gamy odor, I realized, but I adored this outfit. I took my pleas to Grand-Père, explaining that even if I never wore it again, it was my most important possession.

Grand-Père listened sympathetically
“Je comprends, ma petite,”
he said. “I will speak to her.”

At last Grand-Mère gave in. She ordered the furs and leather packed in a separate trunk, and I watched closely until I was certain that the trunk with my Scottish costume would indeed be going with me and not to an orphanage—or worse.

“Do not worry,
ma chère,”
my grandmother said as the last of the trunks were tied to the baggage carts. “You will have everything waiting for you when you reach your new home.”

My new home! If I had been a little older, I might have felt uneasy, perhaps even fearful of what this could mean. But I was not yet six years old, I was the queen of Scots, and everywhere I went, I was greeted with cheering crowds and music and adoring children presenting gifts. It was the kind of welcome I had come to expect, and I delighted in it.

I
HAD LEFT
Scotland in summer, traveled for two months by royal galley, litter, and riverboat, and finally in autumn arrived at Carrières-sur-Seine, a huge old fortress that reminded me of the castles in my homeland. Bands played, flags fluttered, and I was welcomed with pomp and ceremony Lord Livingston, now somewhat recovered from his illness, explained that I would be staying here while one of the other châteaux was being prepared, the cleaning that always preceded the arrival of the royal family.

The welcoming ceremonies, so enchanting at first, had grown quite tiresome. I was impatient to meet the family of which I would become a part—King Henri II and Queen Catherine; their son, François; and his sisters. However, at Carrières I was not presented to the queen, as I had expected to be, but to Diane de Poitiers, duchess of Valentinois, a handsome older woman who seemed to be in charge of everything.
Who is she?
I wondered.

“I am a great friend of King Henri,” the duchess said, as though she had guessed my question. She spoke to me in slow, careful French that I was able to understand, at least in a general kind of way. “The king is in Italy and regrets that he cannot be here to greet you. He has asked me to see that you are made welcome and comfortable.”

The duchess then presented Princesse Élisabeth, who made a graceful
révérence.
I judged her to be at least two years younger than I. And then I met the dauphin, François, the boy I would someday marry.

Prodded by Madame de Poitiers, the dauphin stepped forward. I knew that he was more than a year younger than I—he would not be five years old until January; my mother had told me that much—but I had not expected him to be quite so small. He was thin and pale, and his eyes were listless and dull. My three older Stuart half brothers were all big, strapping lads, but I did not think that this little fellow would ever grow to be so large and muscular. His nurse was continually wiping his dripping nose.