‘Your husband-to-be does idolize you, which is not always the case in an arranged marriage,’ said Marie Fleming, who was less reserved with her suitors and therefore more experienced in matters of the heart than the rest of us.
‘And I love him too,’ replied Mary.
I glanced at our queen as she went along the tables picking through the items on display. Although she was deeply attached to Francis, I wondered if her love for him matched the thunder of emotion that vibrated through me when I thought of Duncan.
‘For the wedding at Notre Dame the bride’s outfit should be the most glamorous of anyone present,’ declared Marie Beaton. She unravelled a skein of thick gold thread and held it up so it caught the light from the window. ‘You must shine like the noonday sun.’
Mary fingered a rich cloth of deeply piled white velvet. ‘I am at a loss to know what to choose. What do you think, Jenny?’ she asked. ‘Jenny?’ she repeated when I didn’t answer.
I shrugged. In truth I wasn’t particularly interested in our appearances for her coming betrothal and wedding to Dauphin Francis. My heart was aching because Duncan Alexander had become aloof with me. He took pains to avoid any group I was in, and, when we were forced to be in each other’s company, strained to even be polite. The events of the day when I’d scratched him were such that my mind was clouded with mistrust and fear and I didn’t know how to explain why I had behaved so rudely.
Also I was more concerned about Mary’s safety than what she might choose to wear for the occasion. The conversation I’d overheard while hiding behind the curtain at Blois seemed to indicate that Catherine de’ Medici saw Lord James Stuart as a nuisance to be dealt with. And I’d noticed that as the wedding drew nearer, instead of warming to her daughter-in-law, Catherine was becoming increasingly irritated by her popularity. Francis wasn’t the only one of Catherine’s children who cared deeply for Mary Stuart; he had half a dozen younger siblings who’d joined us in Paris to attend the forthcoming celebrations. They pleaded to be allowed to take part in our games and accompany us on walks and out riding. Mary was generous with her time. She enjoyed the company of Francis’s sisters, Elisabeth and Claude, who were closest to him in age, and told stories to the younger royal children at bedtime. Charles, the second son of the king and queen, began to refer to her as his ‘angel’. He suffered from nightmares and would call for Mary when he awoke screaming in the dark. She would break off supper and sit by his bed, stroking his head and singing to him to help him fall asleep again.
And then, on the night of the Betrothal Ball, my agitation increased when I heard that the Count of Cluny had returned to the court. When his name was announced to the king and queen Catherine behaved as if she’d never seen him before! Once again I felt the alarm I’d experienced at Blois. If the Queen of France had a poisonous scheme in mind that this man was here to carry out, was Mary her target? She might think that the Guises and their powerful allies would try, through Mary, to usurp the throne of France for themselves. They were fervently Catholic, but the Reformed faiths had prominent followers in many countries, including Scotland and France. Queen Catherine remained Catholic but, unlike her husband, was more tolerant of Protestantism – which brought her into conflict with the Guises. She also differed from her husband in that she was less enthusiastic about any alliance between Scotland and France.
During the last weeks I’d become more observant and sensed intrigue and double-dealing within the tortuous negotiations of Mary’s marriage contract. The rulers of Europe grabbed wealth and power in any way they could – through wars and intermarrying – and in this, France and England were in deadly competition with each other. I thought of the land of my childhood; the northern country of deep glens and wild mountains that I’d grown to love and considered a homeland as much as France. In all these machinations, what would happen to Scotland? I wondered.
At the Betrothal Ball in the great hall of the Louvre I wore a dress of yellow silk. Marie Seton arranged my hair like Mary’s, in a style of soft ringlets, unbound and lying on my shoulders. Because of my recent experience I’d no wish to draw attention to myself and kept my jewellery very plain – pink pearls entwined in a circlet of gold wire on the crown of my head and a similar necklace around my throat.
Mary had designed complementing outfits of silver and gold for herself and Francis. ‘You are the sun and I the moon,’ she told him, taking both his hands in hers before they entered the ballroom together. ‘I reflect the light that the future King of France shines upon me through his presence.’
Francis was enthralled when Mary spoke like this to him. Her gift for poetic utterances in his praise was a pleasant respite from the harsh, critical comments he often received from his mother.
They shimmered under a thousand candles as they paraded onto the polished floor. But the weight of Francis’s clothes seemed to tire him, and after the royal couple had led off the first set he begged to be excused. I was beside Mary when King Henri himself came to escort her back onto the dance floor. I moved away but the king said, ‘This is your companion Ginette who attends you?’
‘I call her Jenny, sire,’ Mary replied.
‘And are you hoping to be betrothed soon too, Jenny?’
I blushed.
‘Ah!’ said the king, laughing. ‘I see I may have touched a sensitive point. Your father is one of my best commanders. I sent him to Scotland to help our good friends there in the fight against the English, and there he found love and married your mother. Why should his daughter not come to France and find an equally good match at my court? Like you, my child’ – he drew Mary Stuart to his side –‘who came to France for romantic reasons, yes?’
Despite being only fifteen Mary was the height of the French king, and she gazed at him directly and said, ‘Not only have I found love, but also respect and kindness and happiness – and am blessed with a new family.’ Caught up in her emotions, she cast herself upon his neck and embraced him.
As she did so, I saw Queen Catherine flash a look of malevolence at her – a younger, prettier woman wrapping her arms around the neck of her husband.
‘Marie! Marie!’ Using the French form of her name, King Henri put his hands on Mary’s waist. He lifted her and placed her away from him. ‘You must not be so impetuous,’ he chided her. ‘It doesn’t do for a person of royal blood to show their feelings so openly.’
‘But I do love you very much,’ she protested, still smiling and in no way chastened by his admonishment. ‘You are the papa I never had. My royal father, King James of Scotland, died soon after I was born. I have never known a father’s guiding hand, and of all the men in the world, you are the one I would most like to be my father.’
Although he scolded her, it was obvious that King Henri was pleased. ‘You may call me “Papa”,’ he instructed her.
‘Papa!’ she cried, and kissed him on both cheeks.
‘So you are now first of my children.’
He took Mary by the arm. Such was her charm that his own children didn’t mind that they had acquired a new sibling, a possible rival for their father’s affections who took precedence over them. But a mother doesn’t welcome a cuckoo in her nest. Maybe the king only meant that Mary was first because she was older in years than his royal children. No matter – a mother does not want the father of her children to declare in front of all France that someone else has supplanted one of hers to come first with their father.
Catherine de’ Medici’s face was suffused with anger. Her eyes protruded slightly and she clenched her hands and ground her teeth together. Her figure was stout and she lacked conventional beauty, but she was an intelligent woman and knew that any outburst would serve her ill. She managed a sickly smile as her husband led the lissom Mary onto the dance floor, where the Master of the King’s Music awaited his command.
I was never sure if what happened next was contrived by Mary for she could surprise one by suddenly seizing an opportunity and acting, not always sensibly but with good intent
ions. I saw her lips move. The king nodded and then announced: ‘A partner for Jenny! The king calls for a partner for Mary’s companion, Ginette de Hautepré!’
I bent my head.
‘Let us have a good Scotsman to escort a lovely French maiden! You, sir!’ He waved his hand as though he had only just caught sight of a young man standing by a pillar.
I glanced over to see who’d been chosen. And my heart stopped still.
The king had summoned Duncan Alexander.
‘Your name?’
‘Sir Duncan Alexander of Knoydart,’ Duncan replied, steadily enough. Was there slight displeasure in his tone?
‘Good Sir Duncan, pray oblige the King of France and escort the Lady Ginette, daughter of a Frenchman who protects our favoured kinsmen of Scotland from the dastardly English.’
It was an order that could not be refused.
Duncan Alexander stood before me. He made a formal bow and then held out his hand for me to take.
I placed my fingers lightly in his. By sheer force of will I prevented them trembling. His hand was cool and his grip firm. I stole a look at his face. There was a slight flush of annoyance and his lips were set.
‘I apologize if this inconveniences you, sir,’ I said.
‘One must do as the King of France wishes. After all, if we disobey, perhaps his majesty will recall the brave, noble and infinitely superior French army now billeted in my homeland and leave us helpless Scots as prey to our enemies.’
‘I think the king meant well by his remark,’ I said, surprised by his resentment.
‘Perhaps he did,’ Duncan replied.
His eyes roved around the hall. I followed his gaze. The Scots lords were in a cluster, gesticulating and talking animatedly together.
‘There are those who might be of the opinion that, saving the king’s presence, such sentiments could be seen as implying, or’ – he paused – ‘even assuming that Scotland now lies under the rule of France.’
There was truth in what he said, but I felt I had to speak up. ‘My father, who is a captain in the French army in Scotland, believes he is there to help keep the kingdom safe from invasion by England. It was the actions of the English army that led to the death of Mary Stuart’s father. Mary is the legitimate and anointed Queen of Scots, and such a small country needs an ally against an aggressive neighbour.’
‘Indeed?’ Duncan’s tone suggested that he was not convinced.
I chose my next words carefully. ‘It’s true,’ I conceded, ‘that an intention, even an action, perhaps of one individual against another, can be grievously misinterpreted.’
Duncan Alexander raised one hand to finger the spot on his cheek where I had scratched him. ‘Is that so?’
I longed to reach out and touch his face and explain to him what had taken place that day. Impossible to do it here before the court, where hundreds of eyes were upon us. Anyway, I had no evidence of any wrongdoing, and if there was something sinister involved, it might put Duncan in danger if I told him what I’d heard and seen. In all my years at court meeting young men, Duncan was the only one who’d aroused any depth of feeling within me. Oh, I flirted and carried on light-hearted conversations as every girl did but always resisted whenever the man wanted to become more serious. When Mary and I discussed love or listened to the romantic ballads and music she was so fond of, she agreed with my decision not to give myself to anyone merely for position or power. It would have to be love, true love, I said, before I’d wed. In this I was supported by my father, who assured me in a recent letter that he’d not barter me away without my consent:
When I have finished with this last commission King Henri has given me to support Scotland in her time of need, you and I can spend time together on our estates. We can talk then of what path you might follow in your adulthood, whether it be to continue at court or to share your life’s journey with another. But I would rather you wed for the reason I did, for you have no need to marry to secure a title or wealth.
As my father had found true love with his life partner, my mother, so, he wished, should I. For myself, I was devoted to Mary Stuart and felt my life was complete being her confidante and companion – until a certain Scottish nobleman had appeared and sent my emotions whirling.
The music began and Duncan placed his hand very firmly under my arm. ‘If one believes that one has been misjudged, then one should make that clear to the person one has offended,’ he said.
‘It may be that this is not possible.’
He must have taken this to mean that we’d had no opportunity to speak to each other alone. ‘Personal conversations can be difficult to arrange in a crowded court.’ He glanced at his countrymen. ‘Scottish society is based on family clans, and I suppose we do congregate sometimes to the exclusion of others.’
I was glad he’d mentioned this. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘the Scots lords always group together. They don’t mix, and many have made no effort to learn the language of the country of their closest ally.’
He tilted his head and a glimmer of a smile showed on his face. We had been conducting our conversation in Scots, but when next he spoke to me it was in perfect French.
‘I had no idea that French was your preferred method of communication,’ he said.
‘Not always,’ I replied to him in Latin.
‘Well then,’ he said, also in Latin. ‘You must let me know, Lady Ginette, which language you like best.’
‘Touché, Sir Duncan,’ I countered.
‘I am not fencing with you,’ he said.
The dance ended before I had a chance to judge if we were fully reconciled. Certainly his face was not as chilly and remote as it had been when we’d met over these last weeks.
The king led Mary to her seat, which had been placed near to his. Both his attendants and hers applauded as they returned. But there was one in his retinue who was not so content with the situation: the dumpy woman who herself had been forced for many years to take second place in her husband’s affections and feared that her own children might follow suit.
Queen Catherine’s eyes also surveyed Duncan and me. We were identified as being friends of Mary Stuart. Was it my fancy or did she now include us in her baleful glances? If Mary was friendly towards Duncan, did that mean that the anger of the Medici might fall on him too?
I’d thought that by not speaking of what had happened in the queen’s private study I’d save him from harm. Save us both.
But nothing could save any of us from the coming storm.
Chapter 5
‘ISN’T IT WONDERFUL that King Henri allows me to call him “Papa”? I am so glad to be considered his true daughter.’
It was about a week after the Betrothal Ball and some ten days before her marriage, and Mary was hosting a reception for the Scottish wedding guests.
No one responded to her remark. Negotiations of the terms of the marriage settlement between Scotland and France had been difficult. The Scots lords, led by Mary’s half-brother, Lord James Stuart, suspected that the French wanted to rule Scotland through her.
‘It is indeed a great honour,’ I commented quickly. Marie Seton exchanged a glance with me. She and the other Maries were young ladies from the noble families of Scotland; they had always been close to Mary Stuart and very mindful of her welfare. Marie Seton was the quietest, and often a quiet person is more perceptive than a noisy one. I guessed that she, like me, was concerned that for Mary to be King Henri’s favourite child was not altogether a good thing.
‘I have always felt the want of a father,’ Mary prattled on. ‘I never saw my own, although I’m sure he would have honoured me had he lived.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ remarked Sir Malcolm Cowrie, one of the Scots lords, ‘for when your father found out on his deathbed that his wife had given birth to a female child, it hastened his end. He knew he needed a boy heir to grow to manhood and take control of Scotland – I’ve heard that he said: It cam wi’ a lass. It’ll gang wi’ a lass . . . he was talking about
the Stuart inheritance,’ he added, in case anyone present did not fully grasp his meaning. ‘It was a girl who brought the crown to the Stuart family when the daughter of King Robert the Bruce, his only heir, married into that family, and now you, a girl, look set to lose it to—’ He broke off as he realized he might have gone too far.
For a moment Mary’s face crumpled in distress. Then she reacted in a manner I’d never seen before. She drew herself up to her full height. ‘You, sir,’ she declared in a steely tone, ‘are presumptuous.’
There was a sudden silence in the room. I saw Lord James Stuart’s eyes narrow as he looked at his half-sister, who was usually pleasant and accommodating in his company. This more regal and commanding side of Mary was new to him.
She pointed at Sir Malcolm Cowrie and her hand did not waver. ‘Sir Malcolm Cowrie, you will leave and not appear in my presence again until I summon you.’
‘I . . .’ he began to protest. ‘Madam, majesty, I do beg you—’
She held up her hand, palm out. ‘Enough! You are dismissed.’ Then she swivelled round, and linking her arm with mine, began a conversation on trifling matters.
I risked a glance over my shoulder. What would happen at this first assertion of her authority over these difficult men?
Malcolm Cowrie turned to appeal to Lord James Stuart as one or two others came to support him. My eyes sought out Duncan Alexander, and as I did so, something registered in my mind. Since the Betrothal Ball we’d talked about religion and politics on occasion, but he never attached himself to one specific group. The Protestant lords generally kept apart from the Catholics; Lord James Stuart, a Protestant, had his own coterie. Duncan moved between them, yet remained separate from any specific faction. In any gathering he positioned himself so that he could see without necessarily being seen. Now he had an intent, watchful expression on his face. Lord James put his hand on the hilt of his sword and strode past Sir Malcolm Cowrie and his friends, making it clear that he wanted nothing to do with anyone who was in disagreement with his half-sister. Sir Malcolm was surprised by the snub, as if Mary’s competence to rule had already been the subject of speculation. He excused himself at once and made to depart. I noted that his erstwhile supporters had deserted him and he left the room alone.
Spy for the Queen of Scots Page 3
