I asked my grandmother, who explained it this way: “Though it is true that Queen Catherine lacks royal blood, her family, the Médicis, were not simple grocers, as some jealous courtiers would have you believe. Hers was a family of great prestige and enormous wealth and influence in Italy The Médicis built a fortune through trade in spices and cloth and an even greater fortune in banking. The queen’s great-grandfather Lorenzo the Magnificent ruled the city of Florence like a prince. Her parents died when she was very young. Everyone called her Duchessina—'Little Duchess.’ Her uncle became pope and arranged for her marriage to Henri, who was then duke of Orléans. Catherine de Médicis came with an enormous dowry, and old King François was happy to have her marry his second son. When the first son died, Catherine found herself queen of France. Poor girl—it was not easy for her here. Years passed before she produced her first child, your future husband, François. Before that finally happened, there had been talk of sending her back to Italy.”
This story made me feel more sympathy for the queen, but I was more curious than ever about the duchess. “What about Madame de Poitiers?” I asked.
Grand-Mère sniffed disapprovingly, almost as she did when she spoke of the Four Maries. “Henri became infatuated with her when he was just a boy, even though she was old enough to be his mother. They are still very close, the queen tolerates it, and that is all I wish to say about it.” I had more questions, but Grand-Mère was not in a mood to answer them. “Now you have the queen’s story. You can make up your mind about her yourself. She will no doubt be your good friend if you do not cross her.”
“Just one more question, s’il vous plaît! Why does Madame de Poitiers always wear black and white?”
Grand-Mère smoothed the skirts of her gown. “Because it pleases her,” she said. “The reason she does everything.”
***
One day Queen Catherine surprised me by saying, “Should you wish to develop your needlework skills, Madame Marie, I would be pleased to help you.”
I was not certain I wanted the queen’s help or instruction—she seemed so remote and cold—but, remembering Grand-Mère’s advice, I thought it was better to accept than to refuse.
My mother had not been much interested in needlework, preferring to spend her time with music. I remembered her sweet voice and the harp and lute she played so beautifully. And how she loved to dance! She and Lady Fleming and her other ladies often spent whole evenings dancing in her royal apartments. Needlework, when my mother did take it out, usually lay forgotten in her lap. It had fallen to Sinclair to teach me the few simple embroidery stitches I knew.
But stitchery, not dancing, was Queen Catherine’s passion, and she devoted many hours to it. I shyly showed her a piece of linen embroidered with a lopsided bird perched on a crooked branch bearing two withered-looking leaves. “You have chosen pretty colors for your bird, Madame Marie,” she said, examining my work. “But we shall have to begin at the beginning with the most basic stitches so that you learn them correctly. I have no doubt that with practice you will soon master them.”
She showed me the running stitch, several in-and-out stitches in a row. That was one I already knew, and I quickly produced a sample I considered perfect.
“Very nice,” she said. “Now let us see if you can improve them. You must make the stitches quite small and even, each one exactly the same size as the one next to it.”
How annoying! I thought. I did not like to be corrected, but I said nothing and did as she had asked.
When I had mastered that to her satisfaction, I moved on to the backstitch, and then to the chain stitch, the split stitch, the tent stitch, the satin stitch, the herringbone. After I was introduced to each one, I practiced it over and over, until I did at last improve. Queen Catherine was always patient, as quick to praise as to correct. During those long and sometimes tedious hours I became better acquainted with her. I began to enjoy her company and look forward to our time together.
While I worked on my embroidery, I listened to the conversation of the queen and her ladies, thinking I might learn something interesting to report when I next saw my uncles and grandparents. But the talk was dull, and my mind drifted off. When I was finally dismissed, I made a hurried révérence and rushed away.
The dauphin often hovered outside his mother’s chambers waiting for me to emerge.
“Ah, dear friend!” François would pipe, taking my hand, and we would wander to the tennis court to watch his father play or to the lists to cheer when King Henri, mounted on horseback, charged against his opponent and knocked him off balance or sent him sprawling.
François confided that his biggest dream was to participate in a real tournament with his father. “How exciting that w-w-would be!” he exclaimed.
He insisted on demonstrating his skill for me. His servant helped him into his specially made suit of armor—a gift from my uncle François, the Scarred One—and seated him on his pony. Carrying a lance, the dauphin urged the pony to gallop at full speed at a series of rings suspended by cords from a wooden arm. He managed to pick off the rings one by one with the point of his lance, and then he trotted over to where I sat waiting, saluted me, and proudly presented me with the rings.
Occasionally I persuaded the Four Maries to accompany me to the lists, and Princesse Élisabeth as well. But my friends were quickly bored. “It would be so much more exciting if we could actually do it, not just sit here and watch,” said Beaton. “Do you suppose they would let us try?”
The rest of us turned to stare at her, stunned by her suggestion. Beaton, the most athletic of us, had been riding since her father set her on a horse when she was barely old enough to walk. Not yet seven, she was fearless.
“They will not let girls do it,” said La Flamin, always the most daring, the one who produced the wildest schemes, “but we could disguise ourselves as boys and creep into the royal stables and borrow horses.”
“Who would saddle them for us?” Seton asked uncertainly.
“I know how to saddle a horse,” Beaton declared. “I can show you how, or I can do it for you. We could use the dauphin’s ponies.” She turned to me. “Do you think he would mind, Marie?”
“Of course not,” I assured her, though I had no idea what he would think.
“We would need armor,” Livingston reminded us. “And lances.”
We never put our scheme into action. But we did spend many hours discussing it and promising one another that someday we would actually find a way to do it.
***
The weekas and months slipped by in an untroubled stream, each day much like the one before it. I studied diligently with my tutors. My stitchery improved to the satisfaction of Queen Catherine. I enjoyed my life as part of the royal family, paid regular visits to my Guise relatives, spent as much time as possible with the Four Maries, and accepted the dauphin’s unflagging devotion.
In the summer of 1549 King Henri decided to go to war against England with the aim of winning back the town of Boulogne, a French town that had been in English hands for many years. Accompanied by my uncle François, the king rode off at the head of an army to do battle against his old enemy while the rest of the court retired to the hunting lodge at Compiègne. Then in October the royal family experienced a great loss: eight-month-old Louis suddenly sickened and died. The queen was overcome with grief. The king rushed back from his battles to mourn with her. He appeared even more melancholy than usual. A heavy cloud of sadness hung over the court.
“Maman and Papa pray for another son,” Princesse Élisabeth whispered.
Having only one son was a serious problem for the royal family. What if something happened to François? By French law, neither of the princesses could inherit the throne. A few weeks later their prayers were at least partly answered when the queen learned she was again expecting a child. But what if it was another daughter? Would King Henri grieve as my father did and lose his will to live?
I was the cause of my father’s death. That knowl
edge had begun to haunt me. By Scottish law, a woman could inherit the throne and rule Scotland, but that did not mean she should. At least my father did not believe so.
***
The court moved to Blois in the Loire Valley, and everyone’s spirits lifted. The Four Maries were particularly enchanted by the spiral staircase in this beautiful château, and La Flamin devised challenges of hopping up and down the stone steps until Madame de Poitiers ordered us to stop. In December I observed my seventh birthday Christmas came and went, and when gifts were exchanged on the sixth of January, the Feast of the Epiphany and the Day of the Three Kings, I presented elaborately embroidered handkerchiefs as gifts and received much praise for my skill. The next occasion for celebration was the sixth birthday of the dauphin. When spring came we moved again to Fontainebleau, where Élisabeth turned five and had to be prevented from eating herself sick at the banquet in her honor.
One day, after I had completed my morning lessons, Madame de Poitiers came to my quarters. This was unusual. She took both of my hands in hers—that, too, was unusual. “Madame Marie,” she said solemnly, “I bring you most unhappy news. Your grandfather died just three days ago.”
My dear grand-père, dead? I threw myself weeping into the duchess’s arms.
“You are too young to attend the funeral, Marie,” she told me. “It is your grandmother’s wish that you be represented by a friend of your uncle’s.”
Who had decided I was too young? Surely not my mother. The news would not yet have reached Scotland. Realizing that she did not yet know of her father’s death made me sob all the harder. I longed to share my grief with my grandmother, my uncles, my brother François. The royal family offered their condolences. Their kindness did little to console me. I put on a black mourning gown. But still I was not allowed to attend the funeral.
Maybe it had nothing to do with my age. I overheard talk among the servants that my grandfather had not died a natural death, that he had been murdered. But no matter whom I asked—“Is it true?”—I received only evasions. The exception was Sinclair, who reported what her sources at the servants’ supper table had said.
“Poison, is what I’ve heard,” she said. “But no one knows for certain, or else no one is saying. Seems to me the old duke should not have had a single enemy. These French are not at one another’s throats, like they are in Scotland. Still, the old gentleman always looked healthy enough to me.”
A month later I was taken to Joinville by my uncle Charles. It seemed unbearably bleak without my dear grandfather. My brother the duke of Longueville had come down from his château in Amiens, and we wept together. Grand-Mère remained steadfastly dry-eyed. She showed me the letter she had received from my mother. I have lost the best father a daughter could hope to have, Maman had written. How sad, I thought, to be so far away when a loved one dies.
Before I returned to Fontainebleau, I had a few moments alone with my brother. “Have you heard that Grand-Père was poisoned?” I asked quietly. “It is a rumor at court, but nobody tells me anything.”
He frowned. “I have heard that too, but I don’t know the truth of it. Grand-Mère doesn’t speak of it.”
“We could ask our uncles,” I suggested, and my brother agreed that we might.
But then I had an even better idea. When Anne d’Este arrived with our uncle François, duke of Aumale, and greeted me with a warm embrace, I whispered, “Madame, may I speak with you in private?”
“Oui, Madame Marie,” she said, following me into a curtained alcove. “How can I help you?”
“Just answer a question, s’il vous plaît,” I said. “Is it true that my grandfather was poisoned? And if so, by whom?” Anne d’Este shook her head. “Often when a man in a powerful position dies unexpectedly, rumors spread that he was poisoned. Sometimes the rumors turn out to be true. But my husband does not believe this to be the case, and your grandfather’s physician has confirmed it. The duke died a peaceful death, and for that we can be grateful.”
I was relieved, but I felt my lip begin to tremble, and I knew that tears would shortly follow. “I miss him,” I murmured.
Anne d’Este knelt down and put her arms around me. “I am sure you do. We all do. But be assured that your grandmother and your uncles are here to care for you and to look out for your best interests.”
I leaned against the lady’s shoulder and wept until she produced a handkerchief and wiped away my tears so they would not stain her gown. My uncle her husband, the new duke of Guise, peered behind the velvet curtain and came to lay his hand on my arm. For the moment, at least, I felt comforted.
Chapter 9
Scandal
THE COURT CONTINUED in its usual routine, moving from one château to another. Each was my favorite for as long as we stayed there—the beautiful gardens at Fontainebleau, the elegant staircase at Blois, the four hundred ornate rooms at Chambord. Queen Catherine loved bright colors and had had the rooms of each château decorated in vibrant reds and blues and greens with lavish gold trim on the ceilings. The furniture, which always moved with us, was richly carved and painted and gilded, and the carpets had been woven in Venice. Everyone, from the highest noble to the lowliest page, dressed in vivid colors—everyone except Madame de Poitiers.
Our animals traveled with us too. Two horses were my favorites: a pretty little black pony named Bravane and a frisky sorrel, Madame la Réale, that occasionally tossed me into the mud. I had become a fearless rider, thanks to my friend Marie Livingston. The other Maries called her Lusty, because of her outspoken opinions. She convinced me to wear breeches under my skirts and to ride astride.
“As we would if we were in Scotland,” she argued. “And with breeches you need not be concerned about your modesty when you fly off.”
I had my own falcon for hunting—I called her Caramel—and she quickly learned that mine was the gloved fist to which she must return. The dauphin persuaded the chief falconer to give him a bird as well. For weeks we discussed its name, with François changing his mind several times.
“Why not name him Chocolat?” I suggested. “We both love sweets, so that would be a good idea. Do you not agree?”
“Oui, Marie, you are r-r-right!” cried the dauphin, who nearly always accepted my suggestions. But François seemed fearful of his hawk’s sharp talons and usually stepped back and let the falconer’s apprentice take Chocolat on his glove.
The four big curly-haired dogs that accompanied the king on royal hunts rode to each château in kennels built on wooden carts, and every lady in the court carried one or two lapdogs with her in her cushioned litter. Lady Fleming’s little spaniel was a particular favorite, with his long silky fur and big ears. She named him Papillon, the French word for “butterfly” My own Biscuit, a white ball of fluff with two black button eyes and a black button nose, followed me everywhere. Princesse Élisabeth had one also, and now little Princesse Claude, who was nearly three, insisted that she must have one just like ours.
We were playing with our dogs, attempting to teach them to sit up and beg, when a messenger delivered a letter from my mother. I was always delighted to receive a letter from Maman, and I broke the seal assuming this would bring an Easter greeting. But the news was much more exciting: my mother was coming to France for a long visit!
I tossed a treat to Biscuit and rushed off to write GrandMère with the wonderful news, knowing that she would be as happy as I was, or at least as happy as she could be in her widowed state. I had become skillful with quill and ink, and my pen scratched quickly across the page with no mistakes or unseemly blots:
I have been very glad to be able to send these present lines for the purpose of telling you the joyful news I have received from the Queen my Mother, who has promised me that she will be here very soon to see you and me, which is to me the greatest happiness which I could wish for in this world. All I am thinking about now is to do my whole duty in all things and to study and to be very good.
I showed the letter to my tutor Monsieur Amy
ot, whose eyebrows looked as prickly as hedgehogs. He praised it and brought me the wax and my gold seal to finish it, and then he summoned a messenger to carry it off at once to Joinville. My mother had not said exactly when she expected to come, but from that day on I waited with growing impatience for her arrival.
***
At the end of May the court moved again to Saint- Germain. A month later Queen Catherine gave birth for the fifth time. The king was with her when their third son, named Charles-Maximilien, came into the world. For once, Madame de Poitiers was not there to attend the birth. “Queen Catherine must be pleased about that,” Sinclair remarked.
We had all heard why Madame de Poitiers was not present: Away on a visit to the Loire Valley, she had fallen from her horse and broken her leg. The king had sent a royal litter to take her to her château at Anet, where she now rested while her leg mended.
“How pleasant it is not to have Madame de Poitiers here,” said Marie Fleming bluntly “I do not like her much.”
I disagreed with La Flamin’s and Sinclair’s opinion of Madame de Poitiers. The duchess always treated me with great kindness. Sometimes she invited the king’s children, including me, to visit her at Château d’Anet, the ancient castle she was having restored. I always enjoyed my time with her there.
Meanwhile, a scandal was in the making. There had been rumors for some time that Lady Fleming had a lover. My governess’s rooms adjoined mine, and when the rumors reached my uncles, they asked me pointed questions.
“Has your governess been receiving visits from a gentleman?” Uncle François asked.
“Baron de Montmorency, the king’s constable, for example?” suggested Uncle Charles.
The Wild Queen Page 5
