Mary Queen of Scots

by Kathryn Lasky

  December 27, 1553

  Oh dear, Francis did bruise himself! And played much too hard yesterday. By evening he was too sick and feverish to attend the Saint Stephen’s Day feast. Janet Sinclair was not feeling well either, so she did not attend. Saint Stephen’s Day is one of my favourite celebrations of the twelve days of the Christmas season. But it just wasn’t the same this year – not without Janet and Francis. The King indulged Queen Catherine in her favourite dance of all, the tarantella. It is a very odd and very wild dance that began in the Queen’s country of Italy. For such a squat, plump woman she does the tarantella with great grace.

  During a rest between dances, I was sitting near the Queen, and Diane de Poitiers came up to her and in her kind and gentle way implored that the Queen not dance so hard.

  “Do not concern yourself, my dear!” Queen Catherine said. “You know how well I do at this point always.” I could not make out what she meant but she seemed appreciative of Diane’s concern, though Diane still seemed worried.

  I asked the Queen if I might not take some of the zabaglione in a silver cup to Francis in his chambers. She pinched my cheek and said, “Yes, little one. You are so gentle with Francis. What a fine wife you will make.”

  “I am a good friend now,” I replied.

  “Yes,” she answered, and I could not read all that was in her eyes. I simply hate it when people talk about me and Francis being married. The four Marys know never to mention this to me. I have promised them that nothing will change once I am married. They will still remain in court as my ladies-in-waiting, my best friends, whether we are in Scotland or France.

  December 28, 1553

  Oh dear, everything is upside down. Queen Catherine has suffered a miscarriage. Now I know why Diane was so concerned. She did dance too hard. I had no idea that the Queen was with child. Diane is always the first to know. She always arranges for the midwife and the wet nurse. It is very odd, because although the Queen is jealous of Diane and considers her an enemy in her own affections for the King, she knows that, above all, Diane has the best interests of the King at heart. And the best interests of the King are identical to those of the Queen – their children.

  Later

  I visited Francis this afternoon. I was told not to tell him about the Queen’s miscarriage. I think it is absolutely rotten when adults keep information from children, but I shall do as I am told. I distracted Francis by having him help me plan my first entertainment, now that I have an independent household and much more money to spend. I plan to give a dinner at midday on the first day of the new year. My uncles de Guises are to attend and of course the four Marys. I did not tell Francis but I am more than relieved that the Queen will most likely be unable to attend. Mostly Francis and I talked about the food. I told him there will be zabaglione. I am engaging an Italian chef. There is no doubt about it, Queen Catherine has brought new tastes to the French court, and the best chefs are Italian. They know how to use herbs. At least that is what everyone says. Of course how should I know, being just a rough Scot raised on haggis and all. Mary Livingston says I should give a special luncheon and invite Madame de Parois and tell my chef to cook haggis. I told her that my chef would quit my service. You see, haggis is a bit of a barbarian dish but we Marys love it. It is a kind of stew made from sheep’s liver and heart and lamb kidneys all chopped up and then boiled with oatmeal in the stomach of a sheep. It sounds terrible but it is really very good. The French would hate it.

  December 31, 1553

  Last day of the old year. As is the custom of my mother, I have fasted today and have now sought audience with my private confessor, Father Mamerot. The problem is that with my stomach empty I think of my mother more. I hunger not so much for food but for Mother. I remember, though it was long ago, fasting with her.

  The fast helps cleanse my mind of les petits vanities, the little vanities, and les choses legere, or trivial things. I know exactly what my mother means. I put out of my mind thoughts of gold ball gowns and mean notions that do not become my station. I must try to divert my mind from all meanness and baseness and not take delight in Mary Livingston’s tart, saucy rhymes. I must try to have a better attitude toward Queen Catherine. I also plan to have a very serious talk with the four Marys. Together we must make vows not to delight in ridicule and try to see the best in people such as Madame de Parois. I must take the lead in guiding the Marys. For indeed I am their Queen, and it is the moral and divine duty of a Queen to cultivate a garden in which higher moral thoughts might take root. So now I have all this organized in my mind. I shall immediately seek Father Mamerot.

  January 2, 1554

  I am so mad at Queen Catherine and Madame de Parois. I hope Mary Livingston does make up some absolutely livid rhymes for those two! Now I know why Janet Sinclair did not come to the Saint Stephen’s Day celebration! Now I know why she has not been to the grand salon but a few times this entire holiday season. It is because Queen Catherine, undoubtedly at Madame de Parois’s urging, has given great offense to my dear nurse, my darling Janet Sinclair. Unbeknownst to me, that cheap merchant’s daughter had reduced Janet Sinclair’s and her husband, John Kemp’s, allowance for wine and kindling and candles in their apartments.

  I fear that even though I am now in charge of my own household these differences between Catherine de Medici and myself will sharpen. The differences began long ago. I remember when I first came here it was Diane de Poitiers who greeted me and the four Marys. She curtsied and called me “Your Majesty” and brimmed with what my mother would call the les vrais gentillesses, the true refinements of a great lady. It was several days before the King and Queen arrived. Then this scowling, pudgy lady raced into the nursery. I did not know who she was and was shocked when I realized it was indeed Francis’s mother. She did not even greet me at all. So I drew myself up and said exactly who I was – in French at that. I had learned only a few words. So I said, “Madame la Reine, Vous connaissez ques vous êtes en la presence d’une Reine? Je suis la Reine d’Ecosse. (Madame Queen, do you know that you are in the presence of a queen? I am the Queen of Scots.)”

  Catherine countered by asking whether I realized that I (“little saucy one”, as she called me) was in the presence of the Queen of France.

  The fact is, there simply is not room for two queens in one country, let alone in one palace.

  January 3, 1554

  The other Marys are just as mad as I am at Queen Catherine, and they forgive my talk to them of the other day, when I sought to guide them away from ridicule and to higher moral thoughts. Mary Livingston wants to know if she can make up nasty poems once more. I said fine. It is nothing compared with taking away one’s kindling and candles, depriving them of warmth and light!

  But then Mary Fleming, who is a timid, cautious sort, said, “Be careful, Mary Livingston. We do not want Queen Catherine going to her cabinet.” A shiver went through us all. The word “poison” hung in the air unspoken.

  January 4, 1554

  Well, I am a cuckoo no more. This is definitely my nest that I am feathering. I have two new pages and two new valets de chambres. They are really to help with service in the four Marys’ apartments, and needless to say the four Marys are in ecstasy. Now they shall be able to have their own card parties and have their guests served properly. I am allowing one of the new pages to run messages and announce just for the Marys. I also have a maître de hôtel, a Monsieur Jallet, who shall take care of ordering all my household goods from food to firewood. Janet Sinclair says I must go through all my clothes and gowns and see what is worn out and what I have outgrown. Mary Fleming is the tiniest of the four Marys, and I shall give to her all those clothes that are still perfect but too small. The others I shall distribute among the three other Marys so they can give them to their favourite servants. This will annoy Madame de Parois to no end, for she likes to give them to her closest friends in exchange for favours and sometim
es she even sells them.

  January 5, 1554

  Puff gave birth to two little puppies this morning! They are no bigger than thimbles! The four Marys and I are so excited. We fear, however, that Puff might not have enough milk. I have sent Monsieur Jallet to search out a wet-nurse dog for our puppies. He looked a bit surprised but went off cheerfully.

  Later

  No wet-nurse dog yet, but Mary Beaton had a very good idea. We are taking embroidery thread and dipping it into bowls of milk and then letting the two little “thimbles” suck.

  January 6, 1554

  Alas, one little thimble died last night just after we came back from the midnight banquet for Twelfth Night. To think that while we were dancing and listening to minstrels and watching jugglers, the little pup was gasping his last. We are planning a funeral. How sad – my second entertainment as head of my own household is to be a funeral. I sent word to Father Confessor Mamerot to meet us in Les Champs du Repos, the pet cemetery here at Blois.

  January 7, 1554

  Because of the funeral the four Marys and Francis and Elizabeth and Claude and I decided to delay giving our Twelfth Night presents. So we did it this morning when we had our hot chocolate. I had embroidered small purses for the four Marys, which they loved. For Princesses Elizabeth and Claude I had embroidered small covers for their books from which they shall begin their studies of Greek and Latin. But the best gift that I gave was for Francis. It, too, was a book with an embroidered cover but filled with blank pages. On the very first page I had written in beautiful gilt script, almost as good as the royal calligrapher, the words Le Registre de la Chasse du Dauphin, Francois [The Record of the Hunt of the Dauphin, Francis]. It is a book for him to record his successes when hunting. Francis loves to hunt and has already killed two wild boars, which is very good for someone who is not even eleven and of such a frail constitution. But he is an excellent horseman and superb with the bow. As a wonderful surprise the King arrived and gave each of us a present, including a lovely sapphire pendant for me that is encircled with pearls. He also, and I felt this was so kind, extended his sympathies for the little pup and asked to see how the other one is doing. Quite well, I am pleased to say. We have named him Thimble.

  January 9, 1554

  We prepare to go to Paris, the Louvre Palace. It is not one of our favourite places, but the happy news is that we shall be there only awhile and then shall go to Château Chambord in the Loire Valley, which indeed is one of our favourite places and where Francis’s and my best horses are. His two are Fontaine and Enghiene, and mine are Bravane and Madame la Reale. There will be hunting for two weeks or more and then on to Chenonceau, another favourite château of ours, where there is usually good ice skating.

  January 10, 1554

  It is said that the reason we are rushing off to Paris is because Queen Catherine seeks a new astrologer. She is disenchanted with Ruggieri for he had predicted a robust, healthy baby boy before she miscarried. There is talk of another astrologer who is supposed to have immense powers of prediction. He is known as Nostradamus, and it has been arranged for him to be at the Louvre Palace. They even say that he shall occupy the old observatory. That indeed would make him the Queen’s First Astrologer. If Michel Nostradamus can make perfume, Ruggieri will certainly be out of a job.

  January 11, 1554

  A corsetier has come to take my measurements for new hoops. All of my vasquines seem to have collapsed. They can no longer do the task for which they were made – to expand my skirts. The fabric pools on the floor and nearly causes me to trip, so eight new ones have been ordered. They are to be made with well-tempered metal. Also, we found that although we had checked my dresses, we had forgotten about my shoes. I have outgrown many or danced the soles off. We have ordered ten new pairs. Janet says I cannot wear high heels anymore since I have grown so tall. I love high heels. They sparkle so when one dances, as the cobblers embed small jewels in the heels. I also need some new gloves. I have asked that they be embroidered with harebells and thistle designs, the flowers of my native land.

  January 17, 1554

  Le Louvre Palace, Paris

  Master Clouet the court painter is here working on royal portraits of Princess Elizabeth and Princess Claude. He is so nice to all of us children and always finds time to help us with our drawing. I have decided to do a portrait of Puff and Thimble, and he will help me, he says.

  We have heard much about this man Nostradamus. Francis has actually met him and says he is much nicer than Ruggieri. He is a Jew. I do not think I have ever met a Jew. And Francis says he truly has the eyes of a seer. I ask what he means. He says that I must see them for myself. The man’s eyes are beyond description. The four Marys and I are so eager to meet him. Queen Catherine is having him make astrological charts for all her children. I hope he doesn’t say anything about the date when I am to marry Francis. I really do not want to hear anything about that right now.

  January 18, 1554

  My uncles have arrived to discuss important business with King Henry. It concerns the signing of vital papers that would make my mother the Queen Regent in Scotland until I am eighteen years old – old enough to rule by myself.

  King Henry has consulted me about the talks with my uncles. Yes, he came to me just as he would an older ruler. My mother had advised me in a letter I received soon after I got here of her desire to officially make King Henry my guardian along with my uncles de Guises. I must sign these guardian papers before my mother can become my Regent, the person who rules in Scotland while I am a child. The King explained to me just what his guardianship will mean. He is to look after my well-being, ensure that I am well guarded at all times – for indeed when I was nine years old there was a plot to poison me! He also will continue to choose my tutors. But we both know it is really Diane who does that. I practised signing my name all morning before he came because I would hate to dribble ink in some unseemly fashion on such important documents.

  Later

  The papers are not to be signed yet for some weeks. There is possibly a problem with Lord Arran, I believe. He is also called the Duke of Châtelherault. He is a Lord Governor of the Scottish estates and represents Scotland in France. He at one time hoped that his son would be my bridegroom. Thank heavens that is not to be, for his son is simpleminded.

  January 19, 1554

  I have at last met Nostradamus. Francis is right. The man’s eyes are indescribable. I expected them to be very dark with piercing glints, but they are a mild grey, and when you look into them they suggest the vastness of the sky. No, not just the sky – the entire cosmos, the firmament and the stars. There is both heaven and Earth in those eyes and maybe hell. But he is kindly and has a gentle way. His beard is long. He has a broad forehead, a straight nose, and steadiness of expression – unlike Ruggieri who has a special look for the Queen, and then what the four Marys and I call his look for children – a mincing smile and a too-sweet voice. I do not like people who have one way of speaking to adults and another to children.

  We were visiting the Queen’s apartments. There were several of us – Francis, the four Marys, and all the babies with their nursemaids. Both dance masters were there, Monsieur de Rege and the ballet master, Monsieur Balthazar. Queen Catherine has plans for us to learn a ballet. The visit was quite merry, with lots of cakes and glazed tarts. The babies were whirling about like little spinning tops and at least a dozen lapdogs were yapping. Queen Catherine was in a very fine mood. She did not mind the wildness, the confusion of spilled cups, barking dogs, and flying cake crumbs. Princesses Claude and Elizabeth and I were chasing the babies with feather fans, playing a tickle game that Claude had invented and the babies loved. Nostradamus was sitting close to the Queen, and they were regarding us in the game. She was pointing first to Charles, then Elizabeth, and so on. I was not paying much attention, but the four Marys were near, and suddenly I saw them all grow q
uite still. Mary Fleming, the most delicate, turned a ghastly white. I thought she might faint. I quickly went up to them. “What is wrong?”

  “Nothing!” Mary Beaton said suddenly. “Nothing at all!” She grabbed my feather fan and began chasing little Henry and Claude. It was bedlam. Shrieks of laughter. But I was left wondering. Why did my Marys look so odd? What had Nostradamus whispered to the Queen?

  January 20, 1554

  I am still unsettled by the four Marys’ behaviour. They seemed false with me at supper tonight, as if they were trying too hard at merriment. I know they are hiding something from me. I shall go to Mary Seton and ask her. She is an honest and direct sort. Indeed she did not join in the false gaiety tonight but remained very quiet.

  January 21, 1554

  Last night before retiring for bed I went to Mary Seton’s chambers. She was almost ready for bed. Her chambermaid Violette, whom she shares with Mary Livingston, was surprised to see me and Mary even more so.

  “What brings you here?” Mary asked, adjusting her nightcap.

  I walked right up to her as she stood by her bed and took both her hands in mine and held them firmly. She looked down at her feet in the embroidered night slippers, as if the flowers stitched of blue- and rose-coloured beads were the most interesting things in the world. I laughed softly. “Even in silence you cannot tell a lie, can you, Mary Seton?” Her fingers tightened in my hands. “Look at me, Mary Seton.” My voice was gentle, but it was the command of a Queen to her subject. She would not refuse. Her steady blue eyes looked into mine. They brimmed with tears! “Mary dear, what is it? What did Nostradamus say?”