‘Perhaps if a king truly respected his wife, then there would be no irregular offspring to upset the balance of power,’ I said under my breath. To share someone I loved with another woman in this way would be unbearable.
‘I suppose it is something that a queen must put up with,’ Beside me Mary sighed, ‘That’s what my mother told me, and I know she had to, many times. But I don’t think my husband, Francis, is capable of behaving in such a way . . .’ She hesitated, as if about to say something else, but Throckmorton spoke again.
‘Her majesty, Queen Elizabeth, has expressed a desire that France and England might seek a common good.’
King Henri regarded the ambassador for a long while before speaking and said finally, ‘You may tell your upstart queen that I do not recognize her as such. The true claimant to the throne of England is my son’s wife, Mary Stuart, whose grandmother was a sister of Elizabeth’s father; she is therefore the nearest heir to King Henry the Eighth. And to that end the royal coat of arms of England will henceforth be included in that of my son, Dauphin Francis, and his wife.’
Throckmorton bowed his head.
‘Pity him,’ Duncan Alexander murmured, ‘to have to convey those joyful tidings to his new English queen.’
Despite the shortness of her reign, tales of Elizabeth’s fiery temper were already spreading.
‘I’ve been told that she took a pair of scissors to a lady-in-waiting with whom she was displeased, and stabbed her in the back of her hand,’ said Mary.
‘Should we advise Throckmorton to keep both hands behind him when next he meets her?’ asked Duncan.
We laughed, and then, looking at the forlorn expression on the face of the English ambassador, Mary said, ‘Monsieur Throckmorton looks so downcast. As King Henri has concluded the official business, I will speak to him.’
She beckoned, and Throckmorton approached with a smile – another man who, despite his office, was under Mary’s spell.
‘I cannot help ease any of the words my adopted father has spoken,’ Mary said gently, ‘but perhaps we might talk of music for a while to relieve your stress.’
‘You are so gracious,’ he replied sincerely.
‘Are you happy that our Queen Mary of Scots, your mentor and friend, is now proclaimed Queen of England?’ Duncan Alexander fell into step beside me as I followed in Mary’s train.
‘A display of gamesmanship,’ I said. ‘Throckmorton will not send that message to England. King Henri has known of Queen Elizabeth’s coronation for weeks and accepts the best he can hope for is that Elizabeth names Mary as her heir should she die childless. He agreed that Mary could wed his son so that, in time, France might rule England. He’ll have her bear the English coat of arms, but he’ll recognize Elizabeth as queen and conduct business with her, and indeed has probably already told the English ambassador this in private.’
‘My lady Ginette!’ Duncan halted in mock surprise. ‘You have become a cynic?’
Witnessing how Catherine de’ Medici, without mercy, dispatched her favourite pet, and knowing of King Henri’s machinations to have his fourteen-year-old daughter, Elisabeth, become third wife to the King of Spain, many years her senior, had indeed made me more cynical. ‘I have become wiser in the ways of the world,’ I retorted.
‘Is it because you are so much older now?’
Duncan knew my age, for he’d sent me a bouquet containing sixteen flowers for my birthday the previous month.
‘You are being sarcastic at my expense, sir.’
‘In no way,’ he replied, but his eyes let me know that he was teasing.
‘A girl is a woman at sixteen,’ I said. ‘Indeed, many are married by then.’
I wasn’t being intentionally coy, but was gratified by the startled look on his face. ‘Are you intending to be married?’
‘I may be,’ I said airily. ‘Lots of suitors apply to our queen as to my availability.’
‘Indeed’ he replied, ‘that may be one of them making such an enquiry at this very moment.’
The elderly Duke of Malpassant had stooped to kiss Mary’s hand as she passed.
I refused to take his bait. ‘What of yourself, Sir Duncan? Are there ladies in Scotland pining for your company?’
He laughed. ‘Oh, my time is too much taken up with my official duties to be going courting.’
‘And what exactly are your official duties?’ I stopped and looked into his face.
‘Ah . . .’ Duncan glanced away. ‘I do believe our queen requires my presence.’
And he was gone, giving me time to reflect that he had not answered my question. But this was frequently the way of it with him. He flitted in and out of the court and my life, sometimes away for weeks at a time. Mary never seemed to notice or comment on his absences. From his conversation I was sure that on occasion he’d been to Scotland, although my only trusted source of information on what was happening there was my father’s letters.
In May my father wrote that John Knox was back in Scotland. With his preaching, and Queen Elizabeth encouraging the Protestant lords the strength of feeling against the French soldiers was increasing:
The English queen meddles in Scottish politics. As England provides shelter and support to the enemies of the queen regent of Scotland, it means they now have a safe refuge. Agents of Queen Elizabeth send swords and guns to the Border lords so that they are equipped to fight amongst themselves, and thus the best growing and grazing lands are constantly ravaged. The single exception is James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, who tries to keep the queen’s rule in those lawless lands and has reaped English enmity by kidnapping their supply trains. If the French army withdraws, I fear this country would be vulnerable and in thrall to a superior neighbour. I am uncertain how the populace view this shift in foreign policy. Left alone to live without agitation and interference, they might prosper more. As it is, their hardship in winter is dire. The preacher John Knox is returned to Scotland and now seeks the favour of Queen Elizabeth of England. No longer does he say a woman is an unnatural ruler – well, not to her, at any rate.
If only half the stories about the English queen were true, then it was wise of John Knox to ally himself with her. If he got in the way of Elizabeth, she’d snap him like a dry twig.
By June we were in Paris again to celebrate the wedding of King Henri’s sister, and the betrothal of his daughter Elisabeth to the King of Spain. Elisabeth was younger than Mary and me, and had never met this older man but was ready to obey the wishes of her parents. It made me glad that I was not of royal blood for such a fate to befall me.
We’d had no rain for weeks and Dauphin Francis complained that the stifling heat of the city sapped his strength. On the day of the tournaments, unable to compete, he was carried on a litter to the Rue de St Antoine, where lists had been erected in the courtyard of the Tournelles Palace.
By chance the royal retinue arrived at the same time as that of the king’s mistress, Diane de Poitiers. It was immediately obvious that Diane’s seat was nearer the king than was the queen’s. The two women regarded each other.
‘You are well, madam?’ Diane de Poitiers enquired.
I wasn’t sure if the use of ‘madam’ rather than ‘majesty’ was an intended slight. Her demeanour was amiable but she couldn’t be unaware that Catherine de’ Medici, not being of true nobility, might take this as an insult.
‘I am well enough,’ the queen replied, giving the other woman no title at all, ‘and glad that my eyesight is still youthful enough that I do not require proximity to an object to view it properly.’
This was a direct reference to Diane’s age. She was years older than both the queen and the king, and had lately been seen using a magnifying glass when reading letters.
The barb went home. The queen was well pleased: she had bested her rival by hinting that Diane’s special place was due to her failing eyesight.
But as Catherine walked on Diane smiled and spoke clearly to one of her attendants. ‘Take this favour to the kin
g’ – she plucked the corsage from her wrist – ‘and ask him to bear my colours in the tournament today.’
We took our seats in the grandstand. It was a sultry day with low cloud and a shimmering heat haze. As the king appeared a rumble of thunder sounded over the turrets of the Bastille prison. He wore the colours of his mistress, the white and black ribbons of Diane de Poitiers.
Catherine de’ Medici clicked her fingers and a page ran off with a message for her husband. On receiving it, the king shook his head. When the page returned, she listened to the answer, cuffed the boy’s ear, and sent him running back.
Mary gave Francis a questioning look.
‘My mother had a vision of ill omen last night,’ he told her. ‘She sends a message to my father to ask him not to enter the lists.’
The king was about to mount his horse when the page approached him again. He brushed the boy aside roughly, sending him sprawling.
Courtiers were whispering behind their fingers and fans:
‘Last night the king’s wife dreamed she saw him lying in a pool of blood.’
‘She has many dreams, our Queen of France. Too much dabbling in the occult, too much listening to the nonsense of soothsayers . . .’
I thought of Nostradamus.
King Henri sat tall in his saddle and waited while his squire selected a lance. The long rays of the evening sun reflected on his breastplate. His horse pawed the ground, the movement causing the light to dazzle on the emblem of the golden lion. It flashed, brilliant, like summer lightning and I flung up my hand to protect my sight. Too late. The intense glare had imprinted on my eyeballs the image of a lion. I squeezed my eyelids shut. Etched in red, the lion lingered before slowly fading to black. When I opened my eyes, around me, people were rubbing their own. I glanced at Catherine de’ Medici. It was obvious that she’d had the same experience. From shielding her eyes her hands dropped into her lap, and then realization swept across her features. She let out a yelp of alarm and scrambled to her feet. Seeking the exit from the stand Catherine pushed courtiers out of the way. But when she reached the wooden staircase, her passage was barred by Duke Fernand, a cousin of the Duke of Guise, who was in the company of some other high-ranking nobles.
‘Let me pass,’ she demanded.
These men were slow to obey her command. They regarded her almost insolently, for they considered the blood that flowed in their veins more royal than hers. Descended from the line of King Louis, who’d been declared a saint, they’d never truly accepted her. To them she was the daughter of common Italian merchants who’d clawed their way to prominence.
Catherine de’ Medici almost stamped her foot in frustration. ‘I know you think of me as a banker’s daughter, but be mindful that the banker is the person who controls the money, and without money you are nothing!’ she spat. ‘Nothing!’
Duke Fernand wiped an imaginary speck of dust from the sleeve of his doublet and moved aside with calculated deliberation.
‘History may not remember me,’ Catherine hissed as she passed him, ‘but your face is one I will not forget.’
‘Now he has made an enemy for life,’ a courtier commented.
‘Perhaps for death,’ muttered another.
Catherine’s path to the king was clear, but already the squire was handing him his lance. She began to run. Ungainly in form and with sleeves flapping, she was a comic figure. Unkind remarks accompanied her progress and she stumbled and almost fell over.
‘Hush!’ Mary turned with a severe look to reprimand the ladies who were tittering in amusement.
Queen Catherine spoke quietly to her husband so we could not hear what she said, but his reply carried to us on the still air.
‘Madam,’ he said, not too unkindly, ‘I ask you to desist. You are making an exhibition of yourself.’
She shook her head and continued to urge him not to fight.
‘The lances are wooden’ – the king showed her – ‘made to break at the slightest impact.’
‘It has been foretold . . .’ Catherine’s voice was louder now, more urgent. She took hold of the king’s stirrup to stay him.
‘Nay, wife.’ The king was in no mood to debate further. ‘You have made it that I cannot leave the field. Who would honour a king who ran away from combat at the behest of a woman and a necromancer?’ He spurred his horse on, and it lumbered forward with his wife trotting pathetically behind.
She stopped, stretched out her arms and raised her tearful face to Diane de Poitiers who was seated in the stand above her. ‘Speak to him,’ she implored. ‘As you do love the king, speak to him.’
A rapid buzz of interested chat ran among the onlookers. Fed a surfeit of tittle-tattle, they lapped up this exciting new gossip. The queen had appealed to the king’s mistress for help! In public! Catherine de’ Medici, acknowledging the love between Diane de Poitiers and the king, had let the court know that where she’d failed to persuade him, his mistress might succeed! The queen humiliating herself by owning that Diane had more influence over King Henri’s actions than her!
Diane de Poitiers shrugged. It was graciously done and sympathetic, as if to say, What can one do? We are mere women, and when a man’s mind is set on a certain course then he can’t be dissuaded.
Mary said, ‘At tournaments, men are like boys playing with toy soldiers—’ She glanced at her husband. It was one of Francis’s favourite pastimes: arranging his collections of soldiers, winning battles he’d never have the strength to fight in real life. Mary lifted his limp hand and kissed it. He smiled at her. His love for her was such that he’d never take offence at anything she said.
The elegantly coiffured Diane de Poitiers leaned back in her seat, but a worry line had appeared on her forehead. After my resolution to become a spy for Mary, I’d cultivated friendships with different ladies in the households of both Catherine and Diane. I’d discovered that Diane also consulted magicians and regularly had her horoscope cast. Her manner, which had previously been relaxed, enjoying the sight of King Henri decked out in her colours, now betrayed a thread of tension. He saluted her and then turned and made a conciliatory gesture to his wife. As if to mollify them both he pulled the visor of his helmet firmly down over his face.
‘There,’ Francis reassured Mary, ‘my father is well protected – his face encased in a cage of metal.’
The lion in his cage! It was if Nostradamus were speaking in my ear.
I leaned forward. Duncan Alexander stood a few paces from me. He was scanning the crowds, methodically working his way along each section. As I watched, he gave a tiny shake of his head. I followed his gaze and saw a man in a short blue cloak acknowledge his signal.
Meanwhile Catherine de’ Medici, retaking her seat, began mumbling to herself.
‘The queen is praying,’ Mary said.
But it wasn’t a prayer. I recognized the words; the same phrases were echoing in my head. The words of Nostradamus:
The young lion shall overcome the old,
On martial field in single combat.
In a golden cage, his eye will be put out.
Two into one, then to die a cruel death.
For this joust the king was opposing Montgomery, the young captain of the Scots Guard. They advanced to their positions at either end of the lists. There was a quietness in the air, the hush before an expected din. The call to arms trumpeted out and they rode against each other. The horses’ hooves kicked up clouds of dust from the dry sand spread across the street. The crowd cheered, but the two men passed each other without contact.
‘Our king has been affected by his wife’s untimely interruption.’ Duke Fernand’s voice, although low, was audible.
The queen gave him a venomous look.
The joust resumed. Coming together with a tremendous clash, the king jolted his opponent, causing him to drop his lance. The crowd roared and Captain Montgomery accepted defeat. However, the king would not agree to the submission as he had failed to unseat his opponent.
The Scot r
ode back to his station. His men were about him, conferring. One of them wore a short blue cloak. Captain Montgomery bent to listen to this man and then removed his helmet.
‘Inform his majesty that I concede the joust. I will not ride a further time.’
Catherine de’ Medici sighed with relief and Diane de Poitiers looked grateful.
But King Henri sent his personal attendant to Captain Montgomery to say: ‘His majesty does not accept your submission. He challenges you to joust again.’
The Scot returned a message: ‘Beg his majesty to declare me a coward, for I would decline.’
Another messenger from King Henri, this time a nobleman: ‘It is not possible for Captain Montgomery to decline. The king insists you must ride against him once more. It is a command. You cannot disobey.’
The exchange was relayed to the tiered ranks of onlookers. When she heard that the king would joust for a third time, his queen groaned and wrapped her arms around her stomach. Mounted and armed once again, with a wooden lance apiece, the two men trotted to either end of the lists and gathered themselves for the third encounter.
‘No . . .’ Catherine whispered. ‘No. Please. Fate spins on the number three.’
The fanfare of the trumpet.
The fall of the flag.
The horses heaving and panting – the setting sun a red ball of fire.
‘Henri! Henri! For France and King Henri!’
A thunder of hooves and a roar of noise. Nobles and commoners alike leap to their feet. The king’s lance misses, but with a hideous crack! the lance of his rival, Captain Montgomery, strikes the plumed crest of the king’s helmet.
And shatters.
A shout went up: ‘A broken lance! King Henri breaks his rival’s lance! Long live the king!’
Holding the jagged stump of his lance, Montgomery went on to the end of the lists. King Henri wavered in his saddle. Then he straightened up and everyone applauded. But Catherine de’ Medici had risen to her feet.
‘The king!’ she screamed. ‘The king! Look to the king!’
What was amiss? What had she, the loyal wife, seen that no one else had noticed? Or was it just her belief in the prophecy that prompted her reaction?
Spy for the Queen of Scots Page 9
