“But I am the queen of Scotland!” I exclaimed, surprised and a little put off by what I had just been told.
“Yes, dear child, you are the queen of Scotland, but you are going to live in the French court. The dauphin outranks you. Fortunately, you are young, and I have no doubt you will learn quickly”
***
While the French ships were being provisioned for the journey, my mother arranged farewell banquets in my honor and invited the Scottish lords and ladies and the landowning lairds. Royal banquets were usually merry affairs, but young as I was, I sensed the sadness rippling like an underground stream beneath the music and dancing and feasting. Though everyone rejoiced that I was going off to marry the future king of France, I would be living far, far away, and I had no idea when I would see Scotland—or my dear mother—again. I tried not to think about that.
The day came to say goodbye: the twenty-ninth of July in the year 1548. My mother and I clung to one another and felt our hearts breaking, though I had been taught that as a queen, I must not give way to displays of emotion. “Your subjects do not wish to see your nose dripping and your eyes red with weeping,” my mother had told me over and over. “It is your duty as queen to appear calm and steadfast, no matter what you may feel.”
On the occasion of my leave-taking, I tried to follow her instructions but failed entirely The French ambassador, sent by the king to escort me on my journey, attempted—without success—to lure me away from my mother. “Go, dearest child,” my mother said at last, her voice thick with tears. “I shall remain on the parapet and watch you from here.”
Finally my guardian Lord Erskine swept me up in his arms and began the long descent down the steep steps cut into the rock to the waiting ships below. I insisted that he put me down at once. “I am the queen,” I lectured him, “and I do not wish to be carried like an infant. I shall walk to the ship myself.”
From somewhere below me on the rough path, Lady Fleming complained that her shoes were being ruined, that they were not made for climbing mountains, and I called down to her, “Lady Fleming, we are not climbing a mountain, we are going down!” That only made her more irritable.
Musicians played lighthearted tunes, but once my companions and I were taken aboard the ships, they turned to something slow and serious. A priest gave a final blessing to the passengers, the crew, and the royal ship itself, and every one of us prayed for a safe journey. Dozens of galley prisoners chained below deck bent to the oars and rowed the royal ship away from the shore, and the crowd that had gathered high above us on the parapet cheered, their shouts carried on the wind. My mother waved her handkerchief. As the ship moved through the Firth of Clyde, my companions and I stood on the deck and watched until Dumbarton Castle, looming remote and forbidding on its great rock, was far behind us. We could no longer make out the tiny figures on the parapet, though I was sure I could still see my mother’s handkerchief fluttering bravely Then that, too, disappeared.
When my friends were done sniffling and wiping their noses over the sadness of leaving their families behind, we set out to explore the ship. I found my quarters and thought them too small, and I protested that I should be given a much bigger cabin. Then my half brother James, who was seventeen and on his way to France to continue his religious studies and who had traveled there once before, explained, “We are truly going to sea, dear Mary, and this is how seafarers live. Even queens must travel this way.” So I decided that my tiny cabin was, indeed, quite large enough after all.
As a child, I was always full of energy and high spirits, and besides, my dearest friends were with me, and I was sure we would have nothing but happy times during our voyage. Neither I nor any of the Four Maries had been to sea, and so we had no idea of what lay ahead of us. At that hour we were very pleased with this grand new adventure, but our enjoyment was not to last.
We passed the Isle of Arran, its rugged mountains shrouded in mist, and were about to enter the open sea. But Captain Villegagnon observed the sky rapidly filling with black clouds and ordered the ships to heave to just as a great ocean storm roared down on us. The royal galley pitched and rolled in the angry waves, and a gale blew so hard across the deck that I could scarcely stand upright. Hours stretched into days, and still the storm punished us. My three half brothers organized games of handy-dandy and hide-fox-and-all-after to amuse the children. But eventually they as well as the rest of the passengers, young and old, grew sick and listless; they could not bear the sight of food and spent their time clutching the rails of the galley. Day after day passed in misery while the captain waited for the storm to wear itself out and the benevolent west winds to rise and carry us on.
“When will the winds be right?” I asked the captain, and he explained wearily that it was all in God’s hands.
Lady Fleming was not willing to wait for God and made a great fuss to the captain, demanding to be put ashore. “It is utter nonsense to have us all imprisoned on this wretched ship and going nowhere!” she complained. “I shall die if I cannot go ashore and recover myself.”
But Captain Villegagnon refused to yield to her. “You are not going to shore but to France,” he said curtly “If that does not please you, madame, you have my permission to drown.”
Lady Fleming let out a sharp little cry and closed herself in her cabin and did not come out again for at least half a day; her usually rosy complexion seemed quite green when she eventually reappeared.
On the tenth day the clouds broke. The captain ordered the sails raised and the prisoners on the oars to row. The royal galley began to plow through the still towering waves, heading westward into the Irish Sea, passing by the Isle of Man and then going south along the coast of Wales. My friends never ceased to be plagued with seasickness and whimpered piteously. I was not afflicted and could not understand why they were so distressed.
Within a day the storm had caught up with us. Once more the royal galley bobbed like a cork on the white-tipped waves, and the rudder was smashed. While the men struggled to repair it, the ship began to roll from side to side so violently that objects slid back and forth across the deck. I had a favorite doll I called Wee Mary—I could not think of any other name for her—and she was swept overboard as I watched helplessly. For the first time since we’d sailed from Dumbarton I was truly upset, and I sobbed until Lady Fleming promised to find me another, though I knew no new doll would be nearly as pretty as Wee Mary
My oldest brother, James, was bent over the captain’s chart table, studying our course and reporting on the progress of our voyage to anyone who cared to listen. The French fleet rounded Cornwall and entered the English Channel, still with no relief from the battering sea. Then, just as everyone had begun to think that we might never arrive, that we were doomed to endure calamity after calamity, land was sighted.
“France! France!” rejoiced the passengers, though it was said weakly by those suffering from a delicate stomach. We had been on the open sea for eighteen days, twice as long as expected.
***
Nearly every citizen of the little fishing village where we landed turned out to welcome the king’s galley. The deck had heaved beneath us for so long that our legs wobbled as we left the ship and came ashore. “Vive la petite reine écossaise!” someone shouted. “Long live the little Scottish queen!” Others joined in. The cheering crowd accompanied us in a joyful procession to a nearby town, where the local lord received me at the gates with great ceremony. I understood hardly a word of what he said—it was all in French—but I believe it included “welcome” and “safe arrival.” I said, “Mera’—thank you—and smiled.
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.
Chapter 3
Grand-Mère Antoinette
AFTER 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.
The Wild Queen Page 2
