“It is happening, Marie!” my future husband squealed joyously. “We are to be m-m-married very soon, and then we shall be together all the time! I shall never be apart from you, and you shall have my whole heart forever,” he added solemnly, bringing my hand to his lips and covering it with kisses.
François was clearly devoted to me. We were best friends, as close as brother and sister. But in the swirl of excitement surrounding our coming wedding, I could not imagine how these feelings of kinship were to change into what I vaguely understood were the feelings of passion that existed between a husband and wife. Madame de Poitiers had promised she would speak to me on the subject. Oddly, it was Queen Catherine who spoke to me about it first.
She dismissed her ladies in waiting, something she had rarely done in my presence. “Ma chère Marie,” she began when we were alone, “I want to talk to you honestly, an older woman to a young, inexperienced one. You are about to marry my son, as has been arranged and understood since you were both tiny children. Your living here among us for nearly ten years has allowed you to become acquainted with us in a way that is frankly unusual for a royal bride. I did not meet my husband until the night before our wedding, not an easy thing for a young girl, and I know that one day I will see my own sweet daughters in that same situation.” She smiled faintly, staring off into the distance. “This does not mean it cannot end well for them, of course. I fell in love with Henri from the beginning.”
That, I thought, is an untruth, or at the very least an exaggeration. But I murmured, “Oui, madame ma reine,” and kept my eyes on my embroidery, waiting for whatever the queen was about to say.
“I am very well satisfied you will make an excellent consort for my son. But you know that I am always concerned about his delicate health. He is very brave and follows his father into the jousting lists as though he were a grown man of robust health. But he is not. Far from it!” She hesitated, watching me intently. “I fear that he has not yet reached manhood. Do you understand me, Marie?”
“Oui, madame, je comprends,” I replied. “I understand.”
I did not need to be told that François was still physically a child. La Flamin, the most knowledgeable of the Four Maries, having had older brothers in her household in Scotland, had stated it bluntly: “He is still just a boy, Marie. The dauphin has not started his growth—he is more than a head shorter than you. His voice is as sweet as a babe’s, and at fourteen it should be breaking. No soft fuzz on his cheeks, or anywhere else, I wager,” she said, causing me to blush and turn away “But,” my friend continued, “that does not mean he will not have all he needs in the next six months or so.”
His mother was telling me much the same thing. I had become a woman, but the dauphin, whom I was soon to marry, was not yet a man.
“I believe there is no rush to marry,” said Queen Catherine, looking directly at me. I longed to look away, to avoid her steady gaze, but her eyes held mine. “However, my husband, the king, has been persuaded by your Guise uncles that the time is right to go forward with the marriage. It will do no good for me to oppose it, though I have expressed my opinion strongly to the king. Nor do you have any say in the matter, Marie. I have heard that Madame de Poitiers also opposes the immediacy of the wedding, preferring to delay it for a while longer. But she too seems powerless to change the king’s mind.”
I thought I detected a twitch of satisfaction in the queen’s mouth when she stated that her rival, too, had limits to the amount of power she could exert once the king had made up his mind. Now I was more curious than ever to learn what Diane de Poitiers would say to me.
Secrecy surrounded the plans for the wedding, which was to be one of the grandest events ever to take place in Paris. Madame de Poitiers assumed responsibility for directing it all—from the viewing stands to be erected outside the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris, to the musicians who must learn music for all the parts of the celebration, to the cooks who would prepare the wedding feasts, and not forgetting the glove makers and embroiderers and seamstresses who would be creating the finery for everyone participating in the ceremony. And my wedding gown!
There was one issue on which I had made up my mind to stand firm, no matter what forces might be brought to bear against me. I had learned, to my dismay, that white was the traditional color of mourning for French queens and so was never worn at weddings. I was determined that white was going to be the color of my wedding gown, even if it meant defying convention. I knew what I wanted, and I saw no reason why I should not have my way.
“The color of the lily,” I said firmly. “That is what I shall have.”
There was surprise at my choice, maybe even some shock, but no argument. I think they understood that if I was old enough to marry, I was old enough to make certain decisions. This was one of them.
***
Early in April, while the court was still in residence at Fontainebleau, two of my uncles invited me to dine with them in their private apartments. This was unusual. I had entertained each of them in my quarters—my uncle François and his lovely wife, Anne d’Este, on several occasions, and at other times the cardinal. I took pride in providing excellent food and drink. I had never been invited to dine with just the two brothers of my mother, and I felt this must be a meeting of grave importance. I expected that they would have advice of various kinds to offer me, and I looked forward to hearing it. It was a step toward my future as queen of France, my role when my husband someday became king.
“We wish to go over the nuptial contract that is being put in place for your protection,” said Uncle François.
I nodded agreeably. “I will do whatever you think is appropriate.”
He smiled and patted my hand. I dearly loved this uncle, who was like a father to me and was now hailed as a hero wherever he went. I would have done whatever he asked.
“In fact, there are two nuptial contracts. The first”—he handed me a document—“is quite straightforward, prepared by the commissioners in the Scottish Parliament, with the approval of our sister the queen mother, all of them acting in your best interests.”
Yes, I thought, my mother will have made sure everything is exactly as it should be. I signed my name.
“There is a second contract we wish you to sign, Marie,” said my uncle the cardinal. “But you must say nothing about this to anyone. Not anyone! Do I have your word?”
I raised my hand and promised.
“Bien," said Uncle Charles. “Good. By the terms of this treaty, you agree that should you die without having produced children by François de Valois, the kingdom of Scotland and any rights you might have to the crown of England will be given over to the king of France, and all revenues will be paid to the king of France until the sum of a million gold crowns is reached.”
The papers lay on the table in front of me, several pages densely written in French. There was the place I was to sign. The sharpened quill and block of ink lay ready I tried to read through them, to understand exactly what they authorized. I read French very well, but I found these documents hard to comprehend. The letters swam before my eyes. My uncles hovered over me. “I am to promise that Scotland will be turned over to the king of France if I die without heirs?”
“In that extremely unlikely circumstance,” my uncles agreed.
“And a million gold crowns as well?” I did understand that this was an enormous sum.
“S’il vous plaît, Marie,” said my soldier uncle, “remember that France has protected Scotland from the English for years and will continue to do so. The death of Henry the Eighth did little to stop the raids at the border between England and Scotland. During his brief rule, Edward the Sixth did not stop them, and Queen Mary Tudor has done no better. It is only right and proper that in the unlikely event that you fail to produce heirs, the king of France should be compensated for his efforts and his great expense on behalf of Scotland. And of course, King Henri will continue to be Scotland’s protector. For that you are grateful, I am sure.”
I picked up the pen and signed my name in large, even letters: Marie Stuart.
We were not yet finished. “Just one more document, ma chère nièce, ” said the cardinal. Uncle François stepped out of the apartment, and while he was gone I thought I might look more carefully at the document I was about to sign and perhaps learn under what conditions Scotland would leave French hands and be returned to the Scots, but the cardinal distracted me with questions and comments about the coming wedding celebration. I had no chance to examine this third document before my uncle reappeared, this time in the company of my future husband. Both of us were to sign this paper, which stated that the previous two documents were valid and would remain valid no matter what promises I had made in the past or what contracts I might sign in the future. I did not fully realize then, nor did I for some time after, that I had signed away Scotland forever and made it a gift to France if I should die without leaving a living child.
The dauphin and I signed. My uncles looked pleased and—I think now—relieved.
The doors of the small room where we had met were opened wide. Musicians appeared seemingly out of nowhere, and a supper had been laid out. Anne d’Este and other specially invited friends of the Guise family, including a jubilant King Henri, joined us for a celebration. It was the first of many.
That was the fourth of April. A few days later the court moved to Paris, where on April 19, 1558, François de Valois and I would plight our troth in the great hall of the Palais du Louvre, where I had given my Latin oration. The wedding would take place five days after the betrothal. There still remained so much to think about and so much to be done—gowns fitted, headdresses created, a trousseau prepared—that I forgot all about the documents I had signed and the promises I had made in them.
Chapter 17
The Wedding
KING HENRI STOOD in the great hall of the Palais du Louvre and announced to the entire French court that the dauphin and I would marry at the Cathedral of Notre Dame on the coming Sunday, the twenty-fourth of April. Applause and cheers greeted the announcement. No one was surprised that we would be married—it had been expected ever since I had arrived in France, nine and a half years earlier—but that the marriage would take place just five days hence came as a shock. I could guess what the ladies and gentlemen were thinking: that there was no time to order new gowns and doublets for the greatest social occasion of the decade.
When the crowd had quieted, my uncle Charles, dressed in brilliant red robes and wearing his cardinal’s hat, called for me and the dauphin to step forward. Poor little François looked even smaller and paler and frailer than usual. He had grown very little in the past couple of years, and he was still quite thin. His dripping nose was red from constant wiping. His eyes were watery. One shoulder was noticeably higher than the other. His hair was thin and limp. There was nothing robust about him.
The cardinal joined our hands and blessed us, and we exchanged jeweled rings and pledged ourselves to marry.
“The dauphin looks sickly,” remarked Marie Fleming afterward. We had persuaded Chef Matteo to give us a generous sample of the iced fruit creams he was preparing for the banquet to be served later that day—“Whatever pleases our lovely bride!”—and we carried bowls of the delicacy to my little boudoir to enjoy our treat. La Flamin spoke her mind plainly, without bothering to soften her words. “Do you really think he will be able to perform his marital duty?”
I had been wondering the same thing. Madame de Poitiers had promised to speak to me frankly on this delicate subject, but she had not yet done so. I wished she would, but I decided not to mention this to La Flamin, given her dislike of the duchess. I shrugged off the question, saying, “Time will tell. Now let us see if Chef Matteo will allow us more of this delicious cream!”
***
The next day, in the midst of the feasting and entertainments that were planned between the betrothal and the wedding, Madame de Poitiers appeared in my apartments at the Palais du Louvre, dismissed the servants, shut the doors, and sat down beside me.
“Queen Catherine and I are in agreement that the dauphin is not ready for conjugal relations,” she said, getting straight to the reason for her visit. “King Henri, however, disagrees. The king desires that the marriage be consummated immediately, though I have warned him that this is extremely unlikely. And the king has the right to witness the event and to demand the customary proof—”
“Witness the event? The customary proof? I did not know that,” I confessed. Embarrassed and frankly horrified, I felt the blood rush to my cheeks.
“You are to be forgiven for not knowing, Madame Marie. But now you must listen carefully, and I will tell you precisely how you and the dauphin are to behave on your wedding night. He will receive similar instructions from me, so there can be no misunderstanding. I will place a tiny vial of sheep’s blood beneath your pillow. Before morning you must remember to spill a few drops of blood on the sheets as proof of the loss of your virginity. This harmless deceit will suffice until your new husband reaches manhood. Do you understand what I have said, Marie?”
I nodded, but Madame de Poitiers was not through. I listened in shocked silence as the duchess described how we must perform if the king insisted upon witnessing the consummation. It sounded extremely undignified, but I knew that her advice on such matters had made possible the large family that Queen Catherine and King Henri had produced. And so I paid close attention.
When she had finished her instructions, she favored me with one of her dazzling smiles. “For now, ma chère Marie, put it all out of your mind. This will surely be the happiest day of your life.”
I was completely unsuccessful at putting the matter out of my mind.
***
Five days was not much time, but it followed a month of secret preparation that had been going on night and day An army of messengers delivered the invitations. All the seamstresses and jewelers and goldsmiths in Paris, who had been working around the clock, looked worn and haggard. I endured a final fitting of my wedding gown. I was assured that everything would be ready in time.
The day before the ceremony I moved with my attendants into a specially prepared suite in the palace of the archbishop of Paris. The Four Maries were with me, all of them bubbling with excitement. King Henri had determined that the marriage of the dauphin would be the grandest event in all of Europe and named my uncle François as the master of ceremonies, but it was Madame de Poitiers, behind the scenes, who orchestrated everything. The only one who seemed detached was, curiously, Queen Catherine. I thought I understood why: she believed her little dauphin was too young to marry. But I knew that I could make the boy happy and I was sure she would soon change her mind.
Long before the sun rose over Paris on my wedding day, I awakened, recited my prayers, and, still in my dressing gown, sat down to write to my mother. I was deeply disappointed that she could not be with me on this important day of my life, but there had not been enough time to arrange for such a long and difficult journey. Often when I wrote to my mother, I was in too much of a hurry to take proper care to write in the elegant cursive style I had been taught. But on this day, a Sunday before dawn under a clear sky full of stars, I formed each word carefully I must tell you, dearest Maman, that I am most assuredly one of the happiest women in the world. I signed the letter and sprinkled sand on the page to dry the ink just as Sinclair arrived with a bowl of oat porridge and a pitcher of cream.
When she saw that I was about to turn it down, my nurse shook a warning finger at me. “You’ll need every bit of strength today, my lovely girl,” she said. I noticed that she was teary-eyed and sniffling. To please her, I took the bowl and ate every spoonful.
On a dressmaker’s mannequin, my
wedding gown waited, shimmering white satin embroidered with hundreds of pearls and diamonds. Since my betrothal I had been walking around in a copy of this gown, getting used to the weight of the satin and lace and jewels and learning to maneuver the long, sweeping train that would be carried in procession by two of the dauphin’s young cousins.
My maidservants arrived to help me dress, and the Four Maries settled in to keep me company during this long process.
“You will truly be the white lily of France.” Seton sighed when all but the train was in place.
“Everyone will be talking!” cried La Flamin. “And you will love every minute of it!”
It was true. I was perfectly aware that a white wedding gown was a break with tradition. I was also aware that white was the ideal foil for my auburn hair.
The royal hairdresser arrived, but I dismissed him, saying, “Madame Seton will see to it, thank you.” He bowed and left, but I knew he was not pleased to be deprived of a chance to boast to his friends.
Seton stayed with me, and the other Maries waited until the last possible moment to leave for their own quarters. I had given them each an expensive new gown for the occasion, though I could imagine how Parois would have reacted to such an extravagant gesture. Seton draped a loose dressing gown over the wedding dress and began to brush my hair to a satiny sheen. Madame de Poitiers arrived and clasped a circlet of precious jewels around my neck.
“A gift from the king,” she said, stepping back to admire the effect. “But where is your hairdresser?” she asked. “He will need to see that your hair is properly done and takes into account the golden crown.”
“Seton is doing my hair,” I said. I did not tell her that I planned to wear my hair loose, another break with tradition, not pinned up to accommodate a crown. “It will be fine, madame, I promise you.”
Madame de Poitiers hesitated, glancing at Seton, who was smiling uncertainly. “Very well, Madame Marie,” she said at last, and she left me and Seton suppressing unseemly trills of laughter.
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