Spy for the Queen of Scots

by Theresa Breslin

  The Maries and I were overcome by laughter as this supposedly mendicant monk charged forward, elbowing children out of his way to grab as much as he could.

  ‘Long live Mary Stuart!’ the friar bellowed. He held up fists full of pennies. ‘Long live Marie, Queen of France!’

  Duncan grinned at me and gestured with his hand, as if to say, I prove my point.

  And I, happy that we were again on speaking terms, smiled back at him.

  After hours of feasting and dancing, jesters, jugglers and musical interludes, then yet more dancing and feasting, King Henri rose from the table, clapped his hand together and announced the bedding of the bride.

  Beneath the heavy damask tablecloth Mary reached for my hand. I squeezed her fingers in response and looked around for the four Maries. As the afternoon and evening progressed, nobles and courtiers had come and gone, occupying different places at the tables, and now I saw that Maries Fleming and Beaton, reckoned to be the most vivacious two, were sitting in a corner with some male admirers around them, while Maries Seton and Livingston were closer to me. Marie Seton saw me glance about and at once signalled to the others, for we’d decided in advance to protect Mary as much as possible from any unseemly behaviour that might erupt at this stage.

  No one knew what capers the king’s attendants, nobles, friends and relatives would get up to. Neither Mary nor I had drunk much wine but some of the guests were wildly intoxicated. These included several of the Scots lords, who nominally had the duty of conducting their queen from the wedding reception to the royal bedchamber. Francis’s male friends and relatives hustled him away, no doubt to pour alcohol down his throat and tell him questionable stories while he waited for word that his bride was ready for him. Mary knelt to receive a sapphire necklace from Queen Catherine as a gift to welcome her into the family. In return she pledged that she would be an obedient wife and a loyal member of the king’s household. Catherine de’ Medici gave her daughter-in-law a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and wished her goodnight. Then Mary’s two uncles, the Duke of Guise and his brother, the Cardinal of Lorraine, attended the king, who came to escort her. Behind them were some other nobles, both Scots and French. The Maries and I wedged ourselves between these groups and, holding fast together, kept Mary some distance from their jostling and ribald remarks.

  ‘Poor Francis.’ Mary was trembling as we undressed her from her bridal gown into her night attire. ‘He has no true confidants as I have. This will be so much worse for him.’

  ‘He has taken part in frolics like this himself,’ Marie Seton soothed our queen as she loosed her hair ornaments and pins, ‘and will know what to expect.’

  I exchanged a look with her. We knew that Francis was not the kind of lad who enjoyed rumbustious games.

  ‘Let us prepare you as quickly as possible,’ I said to Mary. ‘The sooner we send for Francis, the sooner his ordeal will be over, for they will not tarry to bring him to you.’

  She made a face at the prospect of having to accept her husband from the drunken youths who comprised the bridegroom’s supporters.

  ‘As your Guise uncles came with you, so Lord James Stuart went with Francis,’ I told her. ‘Your half-brother is firmly Protestant in his beliefs and his Church professes temperance. I’m sure he’ll not have taken in too much wine and will moderate their worst excesses.’

  ‘Who would have thought it?’ said Marie Seton, who was almost as deeply devout in our Catholic religion as Mary herself. ‘We have found an advantage to us in the Reformed faith.’

  With our reassurance and quips we managed to make Mary smile as we eased the sumptuous nightgown over her slim body. Creamy satin ribbons looped into bows set with tiny diamonds made a collar for her throat. Pin-tucked stitching decorated the sleeves and bodice, with froths of delicate lace cascading from neck to hem.

  Mary looked at herself in the mirror. She reached up and brought long curls of auburn hair forward to frame her face.

  ‘You are very beautiful,’ I told her. ‘I will write to my father tonight and tell him how beautiful you look.’

  ‘I wish it was me,’ sighed Marie Fleming, who’d given her heart away more times than the number of years she’d lived in this world. ‘I’d love to have a gallant who loved me as much as I loved him.’

  I thought of Sir Duncan. I decided not to let him suspect my feelings for him. Not until I was sure he felt the same about me.

  Next we helped Mary don her long dressing robe of burgundy velvet. It was a heavier garment, part quilted, with extended shoulder pieces, but sleeveless and fastened loosely at the front with a thick silken cord. Then we led her from the dressing room into the anteroom of the bedchamber where the king, duke and cardinal awaited her.

  King Henri looked at her approvingly. ‘Yes,’ he nodded, ‘I have chosen well. My eldest son is the first Dauphin to be married in Paris for two hundred years and you are a worthy bride for him.’

  ‘Thank you, Papa,’ Mary whispered with a little sob.

  I was not surprised to see a tear shine in the king’s eye. He was demonstrative in his love for his children and visited the nursery more often than their mother.

  One by one the Maries kissed Mary goodnight and she presented each of them with a gold brooch in the shape of a fleur-de-lis as a token of her wedding day.

  As she gave me mine, I knelt before her to say farewell. ‘Adieu, sweet maid Marie,’ I said. ‘I will greet you in the morning as a woman and a married wife.’

  Mary drew me to my feet. She began to quiver, tremors running over her body as she twisted the gold tassels on the cord of her robe between her fingers.

  ‘You will fray the belt of your dressing robe sent from Florence by the Medici family,’ I chided her with mock severity, and then, seeing that she was genuinely frightened, added, ‘It’s not as if this is some coldly arranged marriage where you’ve never met the groom before your wedding day. No harm will come to you tonight,’ I assured her. ‘Francis is your best friend.’

  Mary blinked in agreement, those wide amber eyes filling with tears. ‘And you, Jenny,’ she said. ‘You are too.’

  The door crashed open and Francis, half undressed, was practically flung through.

  Mary shrieked. Francis, face blotched and smeared with ladies’ rouge, was almost weeping. With banging drum and bawdy songs, his rowdy companions made to follow him inside. The Duke of Guise nudged his brother and laughed loudly.

  But King Henri was less amused. ‘Enough,’ he ordered. He wasn’t an unkind man and probably realized that if this went on much longer then Francis would have some kind of seizure.

  The groom’s party retreated from the doorway.

  ‘The king remains,’ Mary whispered to me, ‘and with him my two uncles.’

  ‘You know how this is,’ I said. ‘As representatives for each of you, they should conduct you to your marital bed.’

  ‘Oh, who would have a royal crown and suffer such indignity,’ Mary moaned.

  I glanced at Francis. As always, he was relying on Mary to be strong for both of them. Unless she rallied, they’d be overcome with nervous hysteria. But I had to go. Already King Henri had glanced in my direction. I made to take my leave, stooping to kiss Francis’s hand.

  ‘Stay, stay,’ he urged me, more at ease in my company than that of the others present. ‘There is no need for you to rush away.’ He was very immature for his fourteen years and sick with worry at the prospect that he might be forced to perform the duties of a bridegroom with witnesses present.

  Mary was in no better state, unable to be the support that she often was to him in situations where he felt overwhelmed.

  I went closer, and said in very low tones. ‘You might say you are so consumed with love for each other that you wish to be left alone in your bedchamber. Perhaps they may wait in the anteroom and come to wake you in the morning. Mary,’ I spoke directly to her, ‘appeal to the king. He loves you so, he’ll not deny you this.’

  Mary embraced me closely and I t
ook the chance to murmur in her ear, ‘No matter what passes between you and Francis tonight, you are aware of what you must tell the king and your uncles tomorrow?’

  Her breathing was rapid and I wanted to forestall any swooning on her part. I took her face in my hands and made her meet my gaze. ‘You understand?’

  She gave a brief nod of her head, and then turned and went quickly to King Henri. Wiping tears from her eyes, she spoke as I’d suggested: ‘My liege lord, whose heart overflows with affection for your children and generously includes me as the same, and further, as one who appreciates great love, know that your son and I adore each other and beg you to allow us to be alone to express this love. I implore you.’

  What man could refuse her anything? She stood, hair tumbled down, in her night robe and gown, a vision of vulnerable loveliness.

  King Henri harrumphed and made protest, but Mary told me later that she’d deliberately mentioned his own experience of love in the hope that he might think of Diane de Poitiers and be glad of a reason to excuse himself.

  Mary had played her part well. King Henri drew his son aside and spoke to him quietly. Then he led them both to the bedroom door, ushered them inside and closed it. Relieved of his duty, he’d no intention of waiting around all night to ensure that his son properly bedded his new wife – not while Diane de Poitiers awaited him in some other part of the palace. He bade the Guise brothers to guard the ‘children’, told them he’d return in the morning, and departed. Banned from actually entering the bedchamber, the pair settled themselves to spend the night in the anteroom. Rather grumpily they called for dice cups, a gaming table and more wine to be brought.

  Immediately after the king left, I slipped away. The royal corridor was heavily guarded, but the side corridor and short stairway to my room were empty. Far away, the sound of music indicated that there were those who’d not yet tired of dancing. But I was physically and emotionally spent and wanted only to rest. Head half bent I hurried up the stairs and almost collided with a late-night reveller.

  ‘Ah, girl’ – the man lurched towards me – ‘you are looking for some midnight sport?’

  ‘No, sir,’ I said firmly, and made to walk on.

  ‘I think you are. You are saying no as a tease to me.’

  ‘I have no wish to tease you, sir,’ I said, ‘or indeed annoy you in any way. But I am very sure that my answer is no.’

  He took me by the shoulders and pulled me to him, his grip surprisingly firm for one inebriated. ‘Let me persuade you to say yes.’

  Now I was concerned. With so much noise going on elsewhere no one would hear my cries for help. I recognized the beginnings of panic in my head, and tried to quell them.

  ‘The lady has made her intentions clear, I think.’

  Sir Duncan Alexander appeared beside me and placed his arm between myself and the drunken lord.

  ‘I have encountered such rebuffs before,’ the man said, winking at him, ‘but they are easily overcome.’

  ‘You seem to be having difficulty understanding the lady’s meaning, but there will be no such difficulty understanding mine.’ And saying this, Sir Duncan swung the man round and booted him soundly on the backside. Then he pushed him forward and sent him sprawling down the stairs. I gripped the banister and looked out over the stairwell. The man got up and limped away, cursing.

  I turned to Duncan. ‘I thank you,’ I said.

  My heart was fluttering, as much now for being close to him as for my frightening experience.

  He looked me up and down. ‘You are unharmed?’

  I gave a quick nod of my head. I was beginning to react to the fright and thought that if I spoke, I might cry.

  ‘Best go inside your room now,’ he said gently, ‘and lock the door.’

  Again I nodded.

  We gazed at each other. My reluctance to speak had become something else. We stood as if transfixed by a spell that both of us were afraid to break.

  Duncan broke the silence. ‘I’ll bid you goodnight.’ He lifted my fingers to his lips and kissed them.

  I went into my room and shut the door behind me. I pressed my ear against the panelling and stayed there until I heard his footsteps fade. Then I lay down, spread my fingers beside my cheek on the pillow and put my mouth to the place where he’d kissed them.

  Chapter 7

  MANY DAYS OF festivities followed. Banquet after banquet, each more lavish than the last: musical tableaux, masques and balls; and a stupendous entertainment with silver-sailed ships that floated over the ballroom floor with King Henri and bridegroom Francis as captains.

  With the formal part over and the duties of the wedding night fulfilled to the king’s satisfaction, Mary and Francis were able to enjoy the celebrations.

  She’d reported to me, giggling, that on their wedding night she and Francis had romped on their bed like two naughty children, hiding behind the bedcurtains, making tunnels among the blankets, and throwing cushions and pillows at each other until eventually, worn out, they’d fallen asleep cuddled together. The duke and the cardinal, finding them like this in the morning, with Mary’s nightgown ribbons all undone and the bedclothes rumpled, had declared the marriage consummated.

  One evening they excused themselves from dinner. Mary professed to be suffering from an attack of dizziness and said she and Francis would eat alone. In reality, Francis was irked by the tedium of meals spent listening to important ambassadors and trade delegates whose names he could never remember. Mary was indulging him by feigning illness so that he could spend the time setting out a wooden model castle he’d been given, complete with miniature cannon and soldiers. Although both King Henri and Queen Catherine wanted them to be present, on show to their favoured guests, the newlyweds were excused; the idea that Mary might already be pregnant could not be dismissed.

  Mary laughed when she heard this and shook her head. She cupped her hands and whispered in my ear, ‘Francis is not quite ready to be a father, and I will not force him yet to do his duty by me.’

  So now, at the request of Catherine de’ Medici, a diversion of a different sort was to take place at dinner. Her love of astrology and mystical interpretations was renowned, and she employed a Florentine astrologer by the name of Cosimo Ruggieri, whom she frequently consulted. This evening she called him to her side and bade him announce a special guest who would perform before the king. It was the prophet known as Michel de Nostradamus.

  I was, as now often seemed to be the case, seated near Sir Duncan Alexander. At first I thought this accidental, but having noticed his movements during the incident with Sir Malcolm Cowrie, I now believed that Duncan took care as to where he placed himself in a room. And after his remarks to me and the looks we’d exchanged on Mary’s wedding day I hoped that he was next to me because of personal attraction.

  He groaned when Nostradamus’s name was called. ‘Merciful Heaven! Save us from the proclamations of this fraudulent trickster.’

  ‘From one who has stated to me that Heaven may not in fact exist,’ I said, ‘that is a strange request.’

  ‘No matter what faith one does or does not have, surely, Jenny, you give no credit to the belief that the planets rule our lives?’

  ‘Do you say then that the phases of the moon have no impact upon the earth? Perhaps you might care to explain the movement of the tides at sea. And further’ – I gave him no chance to interrupt –‘it is documented in scientific books that a full moon can influence moods in animals and humans.’

  ‘I applaud your reading of scientific journals,’ he said.

  I do think he meant that, for his voice had a note of surprise.

  ‘But,’ he went on, ‘that’s not what this fellow is about. Nostradamus claims he can, by divinations and visions, see future events.’

  ‘He should wager on the jousting tournaments and win a fortune.’

  ‘Exactly so!’ said Sir Duncan. ‘But he does not. These four-line verses he writes, his famous quatrains, are invariably obscure, with a threat o
f impending doom. He scares the wits of the gullible, like our most esteemed Queen of France.’

  I glanced around. We were speaking Scots, but even so it wasn’t wise to be talking of Catherine de’ Medici in such a manner.

  The Florentine, Cosimo Ruggieri, ushered in an older man, tall, full-bearded and wearing a wide-shouldered long black coat with winged sleeves.

  ‘Oh!’ I breathed. His clothes flowed around him as he walked, and his shadow, like a dark angel, menaced the room.

  Observing my reaction, Sir Duncan leaned closer as though to reassure me. ‘The soothsayer dresses dramatically to impress us,’ he said as Nostradamus strode to stand before King Henri.

  ‘Remind this person,’ the king instructed a courtier, ‘that in the days of a wedding we want happy thoughts.’

  The courtier went away and came back looking nervous as he relayed his message. ‘The man, Nostradamus, says that with the king’s permission he will depart at no charge for his journey or his time, but if he remains, there is no guarantee that what he might say will please anyone. He cannot change the visions he has and must speak as they direct him.’

  The king clicked his teeth in annoyance. Queen Catherine laid her hand on his arm. ‘Sire, you promised me this,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Very well’ – the king waved his hand – ‘let the performance begin.’

  In the manner of most news meant to be kept secret at the royal court, everyone already knew that the great prophet and alchemist Nostradamus was due to appear. People crowded into the dining hall, some of them driven by curiosity or scepticism – or perhaps a belief, or a need to believe, in the man who was a doctor as well as a seer. They sought cures for illnesses and afflictions – or the recipe for an elixir of eternal youth, of high value in a society where appearance mattered very much.