Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  Since dawn, they had been hearing the flourishes of trumpets, fifes, and drums coming from within the monastic courts of the Archbishop’s palace, whispering like a promise, “Wait … it is coming.” So they milled, and ate the bread and cheese they had brought, and felt the sun beginning to chase away the lingering chill that was in the air as it rose slowly over the city.

  At midmorning the procession began: the Swiss guards and band appeared, escorting the noble guests into Notre Dame. Then followed the Scottish musicians and minstrels, wearing the red and yellow livery of Scotland, piping and drumming their native melodies; then a hundred gentlemen of the King’s household, marching solemnly in step; then the princes of the blood, sumptuously dressed, wearing their family fortunes in jewels which glittered as they moved in slow, swaying motion.

  It took half an hour for all these to pass; next came the princes of the church, the abbots and bishops, bearing great ceremonial crosses of precious metal, wearing jewelled mitres and gold-threaded copes, and the four cardinals of France—the brothers Guise, and a Bourbon, and du Bellay, the papal representative.

  Then the Dauphin, flanked by his two younger brothers, eight-year-old Charles and seven-year-old Henri. François moved mechanically, his eyes set straight ahead, as if something unpleasant awaited him under that billowing silken canopy—a dose of medicine or a lecture.

  A pause. The Dauphin and the little princes passed by, the backs of their velvet mantles puffing out behind them.

  Then, a spot of glowing white. The people gasped. Mourning? For a wedding? The tall, proud figure, draped in a dove-coloured mantle, with her slender, elegant neck rising out of the collar, walked on in celestial detachment. A crown rested on her head, and her hair was flowing long and free, to denote her virginity. Her train stretched on and on, in a graceful arc almost forty feet long, held up by two beautiful attendants. Even from a distance the red spot of the famous Great Harry ruby was visible on her bodice.

  The rest of the procession, colourful and opulent as it was, did not excite. There were only the squat Queen, the little princesses, other noble ladies and damsels—all secondary to the faerie creature who had already passed by, now taking her place beside her bridegroom, surrounded by acolytes holding lighted tapers. The people strained their ears to hear the vows being exchanged on the open-air pavilion, but the whispers were lost. They glimpsed rings exchanged as the Cardinal de Bourbon married them. They saw the nine Scots commissioners, ruddy and stern, step forward to pay homage to François as their new King.

  The Duc de Guise smiled as he heard Mary—safely married, God be praised, nothing could now undo it, what God hath joined and so on—salute her husband as Francis of Scotland, which he had just legally become.

  It had been easy to persuade her to sign, before the wedding, the three secret documents bequeathing Scotland to France, should she die without a child. François was therefore King of Scotland in fact as well as title, even if the Scots did not realize it. Ignorance is bliss, he thought, for those who are not ignorant. She had been so alarmed about the growing power of the Lords of the Congregation that she believed it was her duty to ensure that Scotland would become a French protectorate forever rather than drift into outright heresy. The conversion of her brother James had shocked her and she had welcomed him but coolly.

  The Duc looked at her, standing so strong and young beside him. She seemed the antithesis of death, glistening with beauty and health before her marriage altar. The paper and all its provisions had seemed preposterous, unnecessary, a macabre joke. She had laughed as she signed them. The Scots, on the contrary, had not laughed as they ponderously insisted on provisions being made for Mary’s widowhood; she was to draw a pension from the Duchy of Touraine, regardless of whether she chose to remain in France afterward.

  Both sets of guardians were assuming the death of the other one’s child.

  And that, thought the Duc, is as good a definition of adult cynicism as any.

  A cheer was sounding; it was time to scatter the first of the largesse. The Duc snapped to attention, and motioned to his men to begin throwing the ducats, pistolets, half-crowns, testons and douzains—all gold and silver coins. The crowd roared and scrambled as the shower fell on them like April rain.

  * * *

  There were two banquets, followed by two balls—the first in the Archbishop’s palace, the second in the old Palais de la Cite, with a procession through the streets of Paris in between. The Dauphin rode on a charger caparisoned with cloth-of-gold and silver. Mary was in an open litter, covered with the same material. The crowd pressed in upon her, shoving to examine her face and gown; she betrayed no emotion other than sweet curiosity to see her subjects.

  After the second banquet, served on the same black marble table upon which Henry VI of England had had his coronation banquet long ago, after the dancing, after the masques and pageants—with horses of gold and silver drawing jewelled coaches, and magic boats with billowing silver sails floating on the ballroom floor—the torches finally burned down, their flames ceasing to reflect in the thousands of jewels decorating bosoms, ears, necks, and hair. Night had come, and one by one the guests departed, stealing away in the dark, crossing the bridge over the lapping Seine. They trailed perfume and laughter and music, singing as they went. The moon shone on the white flowering branches of the palace orchard and the little side streets.

  Mary and the Dauphin were escorted to the royal bedchamber where they would spend the night. The bed was high and deep, the pillows made of new goosedown and encased in satin.

  The Marys dressed Mary in her bridal nightgown and helped her to mount the steps into the bed. Behind the carved screen, François’s attendants were doing the same for him. He emerged in a gown of royal blue trimmed with fur, and came forward with slow deliberation. Shaking off their helping hands, he clambered into the bed himself and slid under the covers.

  “We dismiss you,” he said grandly, waving his hand. “You, too, Uncle.” He stopped the Cardinal of Lorraine from blessing the bed. The Cardinal had no choice but to obey.

  The door clicked shut, although they both knew full well eavesdroppers would remain outside listening all night.

  François put his arms around her and kissed her on the mouth, his childish plump lips sweet and delicate.

  “Now you are mine, and no one can take you away,” he said solemnly. “Like they took away my lapdog and my pet bear.”

  “The bear caused so much damage,” said Mary with a laugh. “Do you remember when it escaped at Blois? And ran into the house of Madame Pillonne?”

  “Dear Old Julius. I hated it when they took him away,” said François. He put his head on her shoulder and cuddled up against her. “He had such a sweet way about him, such a soft muzzle.…” He drifted off to sleep.

  Mary lay for a few moments looking at the moonlight on the floor of the chamber, before she too fell asleep.

  * * *

  The next morning the Cardinal of Lorraine and the Duc de Guise gave out the news that the marriage night had been passed “as all expected, all decently and in order.” They went off to their private chambers in glee, where they clanked goblets and proceeded to get decorously drunk.

  XII

  Mary found herself waking up each morning for the next month saying to herself, I am married, and wondering why she did not feel different. She had expected to—had thought that some deep inner change would have taken place. But no—she was the same as always. And François—he was the same, too. When she called him her husband, it felt like one of the games they had played when they were younger and would proclaim themselves pirates, warriors, dragons. Just so it seemed when she would now refer to “François, my husband.”

  Their lessons continued, but now they had their own household together. Mary had simply brought all her people with her—Madame Rallay, the Marys, Father Mamerot, Bourgoing—and now they lived and worked with François’s people, which had already led to a few romances. The larger household mea
nt they had more privileges and bigger expenses, but it was a household made up almost entirely of young people, and it had the effect of being a playhouse in itself.

  There was only picnicking, hunting, and riding during the daylight hours; playacting, dancing, poetry reading, music, and card playing in the evenings. The only adult incursions into their glowing world of leisure and youth were the Guises. Mary’s uncles visited regularly and insisted on drawing her aside to question her carefully about her studies and report on what was happening beyond her golden household.

  It was gloomy, unpleasant news, most of it. Wars, killing, plots, sickness, death. The only happy item they came with was the announcement that, thanks to the marriage, Scotsmen and Frenchmen now had dual citizenship.

  “Which means that François is now, by courtesy, a Scotsman,” said Uncle Cardinal.

  Mary had laughed outright. A sudden picture of François standing in the windy courtyard of a Scottish castle had come to her. It was surprising, this picture; she had not known she remembered such a castle, and was unsure whether it really existed at all. It was high up, on a crag.…

  “And that means you are also a Frenchwoman,” he continued.

  “I feel like a Frenchwoman, completely,” she said.

  “Now citizens of each country can pass freely back and forth; no permission or passports are required. It is the first step in uniting them permanently.”

  Mary sighed. “I wonder if that will ever truly come to pass. The rebels in Scotland seem to grow fiercer and fiercer.…” At the thought of their harassment of her dear mother, her chest ached. Her mother was holding out bravely, trying to fight them off. But Scotland was a long way away, and seemed to have nothing to do with her life here, in the joyous round of days where cares were unknown or never more than a passing annoyance, easily solved.

  “The day will come, my dear,” the Cardinal assured her.

  * * *

  Christmas was coming, and Mary was deeply proud to be able to arrange for all the festivities in her own household. This year, she and François would have their own Christmas, and invite others to join them. Perhaps this was really what marriage meant: having your own home, your own Christmas, rather than being a guest at someone else’s.

  A French Christmas!—setting out a creche, lighting the bûche de Noël in a huge fireplace, midnight mass in the royal chapel illuminated with a thousand candles, programs of sacred music—Mary tingled with excitement in planning it.

  And for François, a special present; she had ordered an Arab horse for him from Spain. He had so longed for one, had eagerly recounted for her the extraordinary features of Arabians: their intelligence, fire, speed; their delicate bones and large eyes. Oh, he would be so surprised—and beside himself with delight! If the breeder there could deliver … if the horse could be brought north safely.… Still, just planning it excited her, thrilled her with her own thoughtfulness and competence.

  It was just before Advent began that Mary received an unexpected summons to Paris, where Henri II wished to see her.

  Why could not the King come here? she wondered. But she obeyed and left immediately.

  * * *

  When she arrived at the Louvre, still chilled and tired from the journey, she was summoned to see the King right away. She barely had time to remove her thick travelling mantle and comb her hair before she was conducted into his presence.

  “Mary Tudor is dead,” said Henri II solemnly, crossing himself. “I stand now in the presence of the new Queen of England.” He nodded in acknowledgment to Mary. “Yes, my child, my daughter. Your good cousin Mary Tudor has been called to her reward, and she leaves her crown to you.”

  How unexpected! How peculiar! And for an instant, Mary hoped it was not true. If it was, it changed everything, and she did not want things changed. She was so happy as she was. “Did she name me so?” asked Mary. Everyone knew that Mary had refused to name her half sister Elizabeth, both because she distrusted her and because of the uncertainty about her legitimacy.

  “She did not have to,” said King Henri. “Blood names you. You inherit by right of descent.”

  “Did she name Elizabeth?” Mary persisted.

  “The heretics pretend she did. No one heard her—no one whose witness we can trust. Her only confidant, the only one who knew her heart, Cardinal Pole, died a mere twelve hours later. Only Cardinal Pole knew that truth—that she could not, would not, have named Elizabeth. No, they hope to make a fait accompli before anyone can act to prevent them.”

  “And do you plan to prevent them?” Not a war! Not another war!

  Her voice was cool and her questions cooler. Ever since her marriage, she had been bolder and less deferential. The King blamed her uncles for that.

  “I plan to protest, and see how it is to be received,” he replied.

  “A protest without troops means little. And I have heard good things about Elizabeth, and that the people like her.”

  “Bah! They like any new ruler. They cheered and lit bonfires for Mary, too. That’s the English for you. Within a year they turn against their sovereign. ‘The English vice is treachery’—”

  “‘And the French vice is lechery,’” she finished the old saw.

  This new self-possession was not at all pleasing, thought the King. I will break her of it.

  “You will go into mourning for Queen Mary, and you will quarter the arms of England on your royal plate, on your cloth of estate, and on your insignia. Tomorrow there will be a banquet, and I will have the heralds formally proclaim you Queen of England.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. You will obey. I am your King.”

  “I am an anointed queen in my own right, a fellow sovereign. I am your equal, not your subject.”

  The King was infuriated. So this was what her uncles were filling her head with. As if Scotland were a real country, the equal of France! The fools!

  “You will do as I command you,” he said, his already narrow eyes turning into slits.

  “The only command I recognize is the fourth commandment: Honour your father and mother. I will honour and obey you as my father, which you are, in law. Not as my superior.”

  Insolent child! thought the King. She needs to be deflated. But who will do it? The uncles will prevent it.

  “Do as I say, and soon you will be a real queen, queen of a real country,” he said. She was—must be!—ambitious, and would agree on that basis. “Just think—Queen of England!”

  Instead she looked sulky. “I hate falsity,” she said. “This is all founded on falsity and empty gestures.”

  “But to be a ruler, one must know how to make those gestures,” he insisted. “They are as important as etiquette and law and even battle. They can sometimes carry as much weight as all three!”

  XIII

  His Holiness Pope Paul IV shuffled and sniffled his way to his writing table at the Vatican. His thin frame shook with what to him was bone-chilling cold. That was because, at the age of eighty-two, the ascetic pontiff’s bones were very close to his skin. This winter was not particularly cold, and indeed there were people strolling about in the great square of St. Peter’s with no mantles on. But within the Papal apartments, no amount of gilding on the paintings or depictions of desert sands could make him feel warm.

  Elizabeth Tudor had chosen January fifteenth for her Coronation, so he had been informed. It was a very northern thing to do. He supposed they were used to bitter weather, and even to staging outdoor ceremonies in it. The letter must reach her before the ceremony; she must not be anointed and crowned in ignorance of his wishes. No!

  He seated himself, and motioned to one of his guards to bring the brazier closer. He did not need to reread her letter; he knew it by heart. She was asking for his recognition; that was simple. It was the answer that had eluded him until now. But now he had it. There could be, must be, no compromise. A heretic might be on the throne, but the throne of England was still, officially, Catholic. Thus it must remain, and she mus
t submit to his arbitration and make obeisance before he would consider recognizing her.

  His spidery fingers grasped his silver-inlaid pen and began writing in equally spidery calligraphy:

  We are unable to comprehend the hereditary right of one not born in wedlock. The Queen of Scots claims the crown, as the nearest legitimate descendant of Henry VII. However, my daughter, if you show yourself willing to submit the controversy to our arbitration, we will show every indulgence to your ladyship which justice would permit.

  He sprinkled sand across the wet ink, feeling as mighty as Saint George.

  Shortly thereafter, he found himself obliged to issue a bull directly to the daughter of darkness in England. Sitting at the same desk, puzzled over her prompt reply—which was not even directly to him, but to her ambassador at the Vatican, recalling him—the former head of the Italian Inquisition did what needed to be done.

  January 12, 1559.

  We hereby decree that heretical sovereigns are incapable of reigning and must not be recognized as legitimate sovereigns by any members of the True Church. Neither allegiance nor obedience is to be shown them, under pain of mortal sin.

  There. The battle lines had been drawn. There must be no accommodation. The bull, Cum Ex Apostolatus, would be published all over Europe.

  * * *

  Elizabeth had her coronation on January 15, 1559, and it was, from all reports, a glittering diamond of a winter day. Mary eagerly read all the descriptions of it, of the long procession through London, the solemn ceremony in Westminster Abbey, followed by the resounding “God save the Queen!” bellowed out by the people.