Before a wedding a bride should be filled with happy anticipation, but this scene had caused a great gloom to settle over Mary. The four Maries and I, along with the rest of her ladies, did our best to cheer her up. Every day shoals of personal gifts arrived from nobles in Scotland and France: fine coifs and collars, and pairs of sleeves heavy with luminous embroidery and precious jewels. Many of these donors were unknown to her and we would speculate as to what favour they might seek in return when Mary became Queen of France. The more simple presents of monogrammed handkerchiefs and lace-edged pillowcases from her mother’s sister, Renée, were the ones Mary valued most. This devout lady was the abbess of a convent in Rheims, and Mary had spent much of her childhood in her company.
But none of these gifts lightened Mary’s mood. She was constantly worried that the wedding might be forestalled by the Scots lords, who were arguing amongst themselves.
‘We are in thrall to the French as once we were to the English army,’ complained one.
‘Not so,’ said another. ‘This alliance with the French will make us stronger. They’ll protect our ports that we may trade directly with Europe without our ships being harried by the English fleet. The Scottish merchants know this and are grateful to have French forces present.’
However, I knew from my father that the French were not welcome everywhere. He had written to tell me this:
We are Catholics in a country where some powerful lords and clan chiefs have decided for different reasons to be Protestant. Ordinary people regard their clan chief almost like a father, and their livelihoods depend on him. The Scottish Reformed Church is increasing in numbers. The congregations are scattered, but those that exist are fiery in their beliefs. The Scottish lords look at the riches of the Catholic Church and would have them for themselves. Several have banded together to call themselves the ‘Lords of the Congregation’. They are supported in their aims by a Protestant preacher called John Knox, who presently lives in Switzerland but is in constant communication with Scotland. Some years ago Knox was indentured as a galley slave on a French ship for colluding with the murderers of Cardinal Beaton, Chancellor of Scotland. Knox now speaks vitriol against France and urges true Protestants to resist the Catholic Church and all its adherents. With his encouragement they challenge the authority of the queen regent of Scotland, Mary of Guise, and look to the leading Protestants in England for support.
Scotland looking to England for support! I could hardly credit this. Down through the centuries it was the English who’d destroyed Scottish crops and towns, stealing cattle, burning abbeys and castles, and killing thousands of Scots in the process. Mary’s father had refused to join with King Henry the Eighth of England in his break with the Pope and disbanding the monasteries, and it had been Henry’s army that had brought ruin to him. Now that Henry was dead and his Catholic daughter by his first wife was on the throne, surely this meant a better relationship between Scotland and England?
John Knox has called the English queen a ‘cursed Jezebel’ [my father’s letter went on], and, in truth, Queen Mary’s rigorous persecution of those she regards as heretics does her cause and the Catholic faith little good. Her health is precarious and ambitious men are now congregating around her half-sister Elizabeth, who, although she gives the appearance of obedience to the old religion, is known to favour Protestantism. Please take care, my darling daughter, in what you say and to whom you speak. Try to avoid being enmeshed in intrigue. These are volatile times.
‘Do you think I was too harsh with him?’ Mary asked me after the reception was over.
‘Who?’ I asked, knowing full well who she meant but trying to give myself time to think of a suitable reply.
‘Sir Malcolm Cowrie.’ Then she giggled. ‘Did you see his face? So smug and superior when commenting on the value of a woman, and then so stunned and cast down when a woman speaks back to him. I do believe he must be a follower of the Scots preacher John Knox, of whom we hear so much and whose opinion of women as rulers is so very low.’
‘A number of your Scots lords are in sympathy with Knox in his views on the right of people to choose a different form of worship,’ I replied. I was thinking of one Scots lord, Sir Duncan Alexander, who had given me cause to think more on the subject.
‘Yes, but my Aunt Renée, who is capable of efficiently running her own convent, tells me that John Knox also preaches that women are unfit to govern because they are intellectually and emotionally inferior to men. When my mother had to take over the ruling of Scotland from the ineffectual regent, James Hamilton, appointed after the death of my father, Preacher Knox declared that having a woman rule a kingdom was as ridiculous as putting a saddle on the back of a cow!’
‘My father writes to me that John Knox exerts a very dangerous influence throughout Scotland,’ I told Mary.
‘I’ve heard that too,’ she agreed, ‘but I’ve been informed that his main influence lies in his ability to turn the minds of his audience by personal appearance and a powerful gift of oratory. Fortunately for myself and Scotland,’ she quipped, ‘he does not reside there.’
We weren’t aware that John Knox had already received an invitation from certain Scots lords to return to Scotland.
Talk of these insults to Scotland’s queen regent affected Mary’s mood even more. The position of Mary of Guise in Scotland was so insecure that she couldn’t travel to France, and Mary was missing her mother, as any bride would in the days leading up to her wedding. Always prone to phases of melancholy, supposedly inherited from her father, she retired to her rooms. In an effort to cheer her, I suggested that she read through some of her mother’s letters.
With the box containing the letters between us, we sat together in a window nook of the Palace of the Louvre. Elaborate preparations were under way for Mary’s wedding. The marriage of the Dauphin was to be a magnificent occasion, the first wedding of such grandeur Paris had hosted for many years. We watched the workers below us in the courtyard erecting tiers of seating for a jousting tournament.
‘Ah,’ Mary sighed. ‘If only my mother could be here to share this with me.’
The lack of a mother was something I knew well, and Mary, always sensitive to the feelings of others, went on, ‘I appreciate your sadness too, Jenny.’ She stretched out her hand to me.
Tears came to my eyes. ‘Sometimes I just want her here to hold and hug,’ I said. We sobbed and clasped each other in our arms. ‘And sometimes for her opinions,’ I added, thinking of my quandary over the scene I’d witnessed in Queen Catherine’s study at Blois.
‘That too,’ said Mary. ‘Wise counsel is what I need; someone to let me know what’s really best for Scotland. Always it seems that those about me are there for self-advancement. The marriage settlements have been so protracted, and—’ She stopped, and placing her knuckles against her temples, squeezed them together with great force.
I looked at her. Was she going to have one of the fainting fits that she’d developed in her teenage years? I put my hands over hers and drew them away. ‘The formal discussions are done now,’ I said reassuringly, ‘and although there may be disagreements as to the practicalities, the Scots lords did finally agree terms.’
‘Not all of them.’ Mary glanced over her shoulder and whispered, ‘Can you keep a secret, Jenny?’
‘What?’ I asked. ‘What kind of secret?’
‘A very important one. You must swear not to speak of this to any other person.’
I hesitated. Was this the kind of involvement my father had warned me against in his letters?
‘Please.’ Mary’s face was anguished. ‘Who else can I trust, if not you?’
Reluctantly I nodded. ‘I swear I will tell no one.’
‘My lords haven’t seen all the papers I signed as part of my marriage contract.’ Mary spoke very quietly. ‘I put my name to a special agreement that if I die childless before Francis, then the Scottish throne and any claim I may have on the English throne will pass to France.’
‘But that is not acceptable!’ I stared at her. ‘The stated terms are that, although Francis and you are king and queen of Scotland, if you die, the Scottish throne passes to the nearest Scottish heir, the head of the Hamilton Stuarts. What was in the mind of Lord James Stuart that he agreed to that?’
‘Lord James Stuart doesn’t know about it.’
Such was my distress that I cried out and stood up, the letters spilling from my lap onto the floor.
‘Hush! Hush!’ Mary pulled me back down.
‘This cannot be,’ I said fiercely, thinking that those Scots lords, Sir Duncan among them, were right to be worried that King Henri wanted to absorb Scotland into French territory, and presumably England too, if possible. ‘You signed an official state paper without the advice of your chief adviser, your brother?’
‘My half-brother . . .’ Mary said deliberately. ‘My half-brother,’ she repeated. ‘Remember, Jenny, that Lord James Stuart is illegitimate.’
‘I’m aware of this,’ I said. It was an accepted fact of life that a king could conduct himself in this manner with women other than his wife and that the resulting children would be given rank – though never succeed to the throne. Lord James Stuart was one of many half-brothers and one half-sister who were the result of Mary’s father’s liaisons with various women. ‘But Lord James is the most prominent of these, has a great deal of power, and has always been supportive of you.’
‘When I do as he wishes,’ Mary said. ‘But he neither wishes nor likes me to think for myself. He pressures me constantly to embrace the Reformed faith, and you know that I would be bereft to leave the Catholic Church.’
I nodded. Since her early years Mary’s faith had been a constant in her life. She attended mass and received Holy Communion every day, and found prayer and meditation a source of comfort and strength.
‘The actions of many people in this matter are based on political expediency rather than religious belief.’ To my surprise I’d quoted almost exactly the words Duncan Alexander had said to me in one of our exchanges. Perhaps we were more in accord with each other than I’d thought.
‘Indeed, I sense that Lord James has his own agenda,’ said Mary. ‘His motives are not solely for the good of Scotland; he seeks personal gain.’
‘In that he would be no different from any of the other Scots lords – or, indeed, French nobles.’ I laughed as I gathered up the fallen letters and sat down beside her.
At this she smiled, and then went on seriously, ‘I hope history doesn’t judge me too harshly. I have prayed hard for God’s guidance in this matter. I listened to my Guise uncles and took the private advice of my mother; she lives with the squabbling Scots lords, who frequently swap loyalties for their personal advantage. She writes to me that Scotland relies on French troops to keep the English army at bay and so, as the child of a royal house, I am prepared to do what is expected of me. I have enough knowledge of politics to understand that if I didn’t sign the agreement, then, much as King Henri loves me, he would find another, more profitable bride for his son, and Scotland would be abandoned – to be torn apart by selfish warring nobles, easy prey for any invader. I must protect the people and hold the land for my heirs, so I did what I thought best for the crown and for the realm.’
After relieving herself of the burden of this terrible secret by sharing it with me, Mary’s mood lifted. ‘In any case,’ she declared brightly, ‘it won’t come to pass. I intend to have many children, and both Francis and I will live long and happily together.’
Chapter 6
MARY CHOSE TO wear white on her wedding day.
It was a startling decision, for it was the custom of king’s brides to come to church dressed in cloth of gold or royal purple.
‘King Henri wants to astound both his subjects and the foreign ambassadors; he wants it to be recorded in history as a day to remember,’ said Mary. ‘So I will play my part to make that happen.’
Her height and bearing and striking looks alone would do that. But as I saw her walk before me, clad in purest white with a full queenly train of immense length, spangled with diamonds, and a golden coronet sitting atop her auburn hair, I knew she was unforgettable.
Her dazzling dress and jewels brought gasps of amazement from the Parisians thronging the streets. They’d already watched the bridegroom and his attendants make their way to Notre Dame, with Francis, a year Mary’s junior, and smaller and thinner, looking slight and pale in his majestic robes. But it was Mary they’d turned out to see; the young bride, reputed to be the most beautiful woman in Europe, who would one day be queen of all France.
A roar of approval greeted her appearance: ‘La Reine Blanche!’
The words ran like a river alongside us as they cried out for the White Queen. Like a bird taking flight, my spirits soared on this wave of acclamation.
‘La Reine Blanche! La Reine Blanche!’
At that moment I felt her to be my queen, yet I did not mind sharing her with these others. Mary had given them something unique to reward their hours of waiting in cramped conditions. I smiled and waved at the well-wishers. Now they’d have a story to tell their children and grandchildren. They’d be able to say that they were there, on the streets of Paris, and that they saw her, the White Queen, as she walked past. And they’d boast about it – this seamstress, or friar, goose girl, or butcher’s boy: I tell you it as truth, may the Lord listen to my words and judge me if I lie, I was standing not more than four feet away when the procession halted, and Mary Stuart looked directly at me! Below the banners and the flags, amid the singing and shouting, through the tumult and clatter, the world stilled for that second when Mary Stuart stopped to smile at them alone.
With an unerring instinct for spectacle and impact and her innate talent for personal connection, Mary paced slowly through the streets of Paris on the arm of King Henri. Now and then she paused to acknowledge the people, so that those who’d been there since yesterday morning vying for a good position and were now crushed against the barriers felt part of this great occasion. To the sound of tambour and trumpet we arrived before the massive main doors of the cathedral. Fabulous sapphires and rubies studded the crown on Mary’s head, while the one enormous brilliant diamond pendant round her neck flashed in the spring sunlight. The crowds pressed forward. Her stature made it possible for many to catch a glimpse of her splendour as she mounted the steps of the arched stage erected outside Notre Dame. Here, below the bell towers of the cathedral, elevated so that prince and peasant might bear witness, the wedding was conducted by the Archbishop of Rouen. The spectators went wild with delight and continued to applaud and cheer as the ceremony began.
‘Who would warrant that there would be such a reaction to a girl in a pretty dress.’ Sir Duncan Alexander was standing beside me.
‘A woman’s worth is more than being a girl in a pretty dress,’ I responded.
‘Yes,’ he replied after a moment, ‘indeed it is.’ Then he glanced at my own dress of sparkling silver laced over a stomacher criss-crossed with translucent pearls, his eyes travelling up to my hair, braided and entwined with matching seed pearls stitched on silver thread. His gaze came back to my face and he tilted his head and said, ‘Not to deny the truth of your remark, yet beauty doth touch a man’s heart.’
Now I was confused. I believed him to be enchanted with Mary Stuart, but had Duncan Alexander just paid me a compliment? He’d been looking at me, not Mary, when uttering the words ‘beauty’ and ‘heart’. With him standing so close enough during the proceedings, my mind was a jumble of conflicting emotions.
As commander of the army, Mary’s uncle, the Duke of Guise, had a major role in organizing events. He promenaded up and down, ensuring that everyone was in their correct place and not obstructing the view of the populace – in the process ensuring that he himself was noticed. As he made an elegant salute to a section of the crowd who called out his name, I saw Catherine de’ Medici scowl. Then she looked at the bride, the daughter-in-law who, from this day, wou
ld exert greater influence over her son. For a moment the scowl remained on her face before being replaced by a frozen smile.
Mary Stuart stood erect and dignified. Francis gazed up adoringly at her as they made their marriage vows. King Henri took one of his own rings and gave it to his son to place on his bride’s finger. A great hurrah went up. And with it came a sense of optimism. It was done. The French throne secured, with a healthy bride to bear children, Scotland protected, and the Guise family gloating that, through Mary, they were now one of the supreme power brokers in France.
When the nuptial mass, held within the cathedral itself, was finished, we came out into the spring sunshine and a riotous welcome. The royal family and their friends were carried in litters to the wedding reception.
The streets were even more crowded than before, with people packed together, eagerly awaiting the expected largesse. Sweetmeats and coin, ribbons and fancy goods, souvenirs and favours of every kind were distributed as our procession wound its way among them. Rapturous applause accompanied us.
Marie Seton peered ahead, where we could see Francis and Mary waving and smiling from their litter. ‘It’s heartening to hear common folk shout out their love and approval for our queen,’ she commented.
‘Ha!’ said Sir Duncan, who was riding beside us. ‘I suspect that the volume of their cheers corresponds to the amount of largesse being thrown out.’
‘Oh, tush!’ I said, annoyed with him for spoiling the mood when, not one second previously, I’d been thinking how handsome he looked: long legs in black boots and hose, topped by mauve breeches and tunic with a gold collar beneath his chin. ‘Can a dour Scot like yourself not enjoy the day as it is?’
‘Perhaps it’s because at home in Scotland our folk live in such circumstances that—’ Sir Duncan looked down at my upturned face and broke off. Our eyes met and our gaze locked. He looked away first. Then, turning back to lean into our carriage, he gathered up some coin from the basket at our feet and flung it directly at a fat friar standing near us.
Spy for the Queen of Scots Page 4
