Mary Queen of Scots

by Kathryn Lasky

  He then began once more to play the pipes. He told me that he was practising for when the Scots pipers arrive next month. He played for an hour, and I felt a peace steal over my soul, and yes, I felt the bruises in my heart. But to be bruised is to be human, to be coursing with blood. For bruises are caused by blood spilled under the skin. They are the tears that bleed inside. My eyes rested on Robin MacClean, and I have memorized every line of his face. I am shocked to have these feelings.

  So now I am sick with the catarrh knocking in my chest. But I mind it not. I still hear the music Robin played. I can almost feel the mist on my cheek, and I remember the creases that fan out like rays of light from the edges of his bright blue eyes. It stirs my heart and my heart does pump blood and if I am to be bruised – well, so be it. I am human, a Queen now, and someday, a woman.

  May 18, 1554

  I am feeling better, but three of the four Marys are now sick. Not Mary Fleming. There is a part of me that wishes Mary Fleming were sick. It would perhaps explain some of her odd behaviour. She was quite upset today when Madame de Parois insisted that even though the rest of us were sick that she continue with the music lessons with Signore Marcellini. I saw no need for it and thus have sent a note to Madame de Parois that there are to be no more music lessons until I can attend again.

  June 1, 1554

  Nearly two weeks since I have written. My illness took a turn for the worse. I was actually delirious at one point. They bled me. Doctor Bourgoing finally agreed. I was so delirious I did not realize they were slicing into my heel and cupping it. Now my heel is black and blue and hurts if I put weight on it. I had strange, turbulent dreams, for days on end it seemed. I often dreamed of Robin MacClean. In one dream we stood in a pool of the fountain and he piped to me. It was so real. I could almost feel the water lapping against my legs. In another we, Robin and I, were back in Scotland at Lake Mentieth at the priory on the island of Inchmahome. We were the only people on the island, and Robin said we should swim around it. But I said, “I cannot swim.”

  “It is easy,” he said. “I’ll teach you how. Climb on my back.” So I did. I held on to his broad shoulders, and the movement of his body through the water was soon inscribed on my mind, and I said, “I can swim by myself.” And I slipped off his back and floated. We swam together around the island and on a rock near shore Francis waved to us. He had a sweet, sad look on his face.

  “Oh, Mary! Mary! What a swimmer you are!” he called out.

  “Come in, Francis. It’s easy.”

  “No, I shall never be able to. Mary, you are strong and beautiful.” I looked at Robin and I saw from the happy look on his face that he agreed. I hope that in my delirium I did not call out any names.

  June 2, 1554

  I prepare for a visit from the Bishop of Galloway along with a Scottish delegation. They bring letters, of course, from the rival factions and parties in Scotland. I fear that the Bishop will beg for mercy for the Duke of Châtelherault, Lord Arran, who was found guilty of taking money from the treasury. It is, of course, unthinkable to restore his original powers, which he so abused. But I am not against mercy of some sort. I have discussed this in a letter to my mother and received from her yesterday a letter regarding this subject. It was one I had to hide most definitely from my uncle le Balafré. One might imagine what the old warrior thinks of any mercies being extended to anyone who has so abused his powers. Mother cautions me that I am of an impulsive nature and that I need only listen and give the appearance of an open mind. I need not come to a decision in the presence of these gentlemen. “Never,” she wrote, “make a decision in public.” I am to write her what indeed the proposals for mercy are, and then she shall deliberate and give me guidance on this matter. I have made a list of the important points of her letter concerning my demeanour during this audience right here in my diary. I destroyed the letter itself.

  Things to remember when receiving the Bishop and the Scottish delegation:

  •Be attentive to each member of the delegation.

  •Look each gentleman directly in the eye as you speak to him.

  •Ask questions of as many gentlemen as possible, making sure to address each one by his full title (this I knew!).

  •At the end of the audience, I am to summarize briefly all that has been said – to prove that I listened – and then say the following words: “My Lords and Bishop, I have listened carefully to the subjects on which you have spoken. Be assured that I take these concerns most seriously and shall give them my considered thought. I thank you for your unflagging loyalty to the estates of Scotland.”

  And then I am to invite them to a special banquet at which my future husband, Francis, shall be in attendance. It is most important that Francis attend for this indeed will be a constant reminder of the vital connection between Scotland and France and the strong deterrent we shall present to the English.

  June 5, 1554

  Francis threw up at the banquet for the Scottish delegation! It splattered right onto the Bishop of Galloway’s surplice! And then he – Francis, that is – fainted. This did not further the notion of the Scots-French alliance as a strong deterrent toward England. I was mortified. Of course, so was Francis. I tried my best to present an air of composure. But then I realized that perhaps this was wrong, as it might make them think that he does this all the time. And everything had gone so well until that point. I had done exactly as my mother counselled. When I write her a report of this meeting, I am not going to mention Francis’s illness, although I probably should, for certainly the Scottish delegation will.

  Concerning the mercies they requested on behalf of the Duke of Châtelherault, it was not as much as I had anticipated. They asked merely for a reduction of the interest on the money he is to pay back. I did as Mother said. I spoke neither yea or nay to such a proposal but gave them encouragement that I would consider it. Perhaps I did suggest that I felt this was not too much to ask.

  I am completely exhausted, however, for I took much of the delegation hunting and hawking and horseback riding with me. I felt that I must make up for Francis in terms of my vigour. Poor Francis, he is in deepest despair. I keep telling him to pay no heed. It is done. It cannot be undone but people will forget it. But he sees through my words and says, “Mary, people do not forget when a Dauphin who is to be a King vomits at a state banquet.” He is right but this I must not say.

  June 7, 1554

  I am absolutely furious. I thought the four Marys sympathetic to my embarrassment and predicament concerning Francis’s illness at the banquet for the Scottish delegation. But then this morning I heard them all giggling madly as I entered Mary Fleming’s chamber. I begged to be let in on the joke. They were suddenly quiet, and the more I insisted the more they hesitated. But I guessed immediately. “A new rhyme – tell me, Mary.” So with eyes downcast she stepped forward and recited this loathsome ditty:

  Francis sups with

  Kings and Lords

  Then brings it up in ways untoward.

  He burps

  He gags

  He turns bright red

  Then falls over

  As if he’s dead.

  I absolutely boiled with anger. I fled the room and have not spoken to them all day.

  June 8, 1554

  We go to Anet in three days. The four Marys and I are so excited. Diane plans a masquerade ball for us. We are busy considering our costumes. Oh yes, I am finished being angry with the four Marys. It is hard to remain angry when there is so much good amusement to be had.

  June 16, 1554

  Anet

  We are back at Anet and not a moment too soon. Queen Catherine, of course, is not with us, as she never comes here. I myself spent some days at Meudon visiting Grandmama. The baby Charles has grown so. He now rolls over and smiles and reaches for objects you dangle in front of him. Aunt Anne and Grandmama both talk of h
ow they hope that Queen Catherine will soon again be with child for it always improves her mood. She has lost more babies than I knew. This I never knew – that she was married nearly ten years before giving birth to Francis. I cannot imagine having babies. I mean, I know I want them, but somehow I picture them about four months old and very chubby and adorable like little Charles. Actually having them seems very mysterious to me, although I do know something about how that all comes about. The four Marys and I talk about it quite a bit.

  Ronsard is also here with us at Anet. These are the days of Midsummer – the longest days of the year, the times of briefest darkness. It makes the nights slip by magically spun with starlight and moonlight between the dusk and the dawn. The dusk gathers from seven in the evening until nearly ten at night. It gives us a long twilight in which the world turns lavender, then a tender grey before the darkness thickens. That is why our masquerade ball shall not begin until an hour before midnight. We hope that the King will come. Oh, surely he will, for he loves dressing up with Diane and dancing under the stars.

  With Ronsard we have studied much Greek and Latin literature in which the ancient pagan gods come out to frolic on this shortest night of the year. So we are all now deciding which deities and sprites and spirits we want to be. Janet Sinclair and her husband, John Kemp, and Lord Erskine plan to go as the three Fates who spin the thread of human destiny. Diane will undoubtedly go as her namesake, the goddess of the moon and the hunt, and if King Henry comes he will be Phoebus, the sun god. Francis is thinking of going as the Man in the Moon or Cupid with golden wings and a bow. Mary Seton wants to be Phillida, a shepherd girl. I want to go as Philomela, but everyone cries no, that her story is too sad. King Tereus cut out her tongue for fear that she would tell his wife, her sister, that he loved Philomela more. He then abandoned her, telling everyone she was dead. But Philomela survived and was transformed into a nightingale who sang her story with a most beautiful voice. Master Cellini is here and shall help us with our costumes. He says he can design for me a most wonderful nightingale gown with jewel-studded wings and a feathered mask. Midsummer’s Eve is only a few days away, so we must get to work.

  June 17, 1554

  Everything here is almost perfect. Ronsard, Cellini, and all the wonderful artists of the court love Diane so. She holds poetry salons almost every evening. And if we are not in the music salon hearing Ronsard or some wonderful musician – not Signore Marcellini, whose talents show less brightly here – we are invited into her magnificent library, one of the finest collections in all of France, nay, all of Europe, some say. Many of the books are bound with golden arabesques and crimson velvet with enamelled corners. She allows us all to take them down and read them.

  In addition to these books, she has some very old, rare manuscripts, one from the year 1358 – an unimaginable distance back in time. There is another written in the hand of an ancient Norman knight from the year 1422. She encourages all of us children to pore over these books and manuscripts. Diane is so different from Queen Catherine. The first phrase I learned in the court of France when I met Queen Catherine was, Ne touche pas. (Don’t touch.) It is the first phrase I think all of the Queen’s children learn. She is maniacally possessive of her things. She is consumed with fear that her precious books, or jewels, or whatever, shall be damaged. Diane is just the opposite. We are all so gay, except Mary Fleming, who grows more and more withdrawn every day. I think I must speak to her directly. The time has come.

  June 18, 1554

  Mary Fleming will say nothing. She asked me not to ask her anything and set her mouth firmly. It was as if her face had suddenly turned to stone. There was a steely look in her eye as if she might dare me as her Queen to command her to tell.

  June 19, 1554

  We have had our first fittings for our costumes. Mary Seton is a shepherdess. Mary Fleming is Titania, a nature sprite and Queen of the Fairies. Many thought I should be Titania, but you see, I am a real Queen and not a fairy one, so I do not think it proper to pretend to be a fantastical Queen. I am a nightingale, and if the story is too sad, well, people can make up another in their heads. Mary Beaton is Puck or sometimes he is called Robin Goodfellow, a mischievous sprite. Mary Livingston is a wood nymph. I love this holiday for it is twined with thoughts of magic and mischief and love – yes, it is a time for lovers and fire. Fire is believed to ensure a good harvest and fertility. In Scotland, farmers lead their sheep through villages and pastures with torches lighted from an immense Midsummer’s bonfire. Some folk jump with their sweethearts over burning coals to prove their love because it is also a festival for lovers.

  The four Marys and I plan to follow an ancient practice of which we have heard. We shall fast on the day of Midsummer Eve and lay a table in our apartments here at Anet with a clean cloth, bread, cheese, and wine and leave open our door. It is said that the spirit of the man one is to marry shall enter. Of course, it is not so exciting for me, as I already know whom I am to marry. But I wonder if some magic might happen and suppose I were surprised and it was someone else’s spirit and not Francis’s. Oh dear, I should not write such things. I do love Francis so. But I think it is more exciting not knowing who you are to marry, as I have since I was four years old.

  June 21, 1554

  Just a moment to write before I begin getting dressed for the masked ball. Oh, what a fine day we’ve had thus far on this Midsummer Eve. Diane herself came in and woke us up at dawn. She insisted that we all go riding to gather the flowers of Midsummer. We picked some mistletoe and bleeding heart, which grows in the thickest part of the forest that surrounds Anet, and then we went to the fields for lupine and cinquefoil and starflower. Diane tells us if we lay these flowers under our pillows on this eve we shall have dreams of love. So we rushed off and tore through the woods and meadows. Even Mary Fleming seemed a bit happier.

  June 23, 1554

  I can hardly write. Midsummer Night was not the eve of magic and love we so anticipated. If there was any magic, it was most dark indeed. We now know what has caused Mary Fleming’s odd behaviour. Signore Marcellini. For months now he has been trying to force his attentions on poor Mary, and last night as we played our Midsummer Eve games of chase and hide-and-seek through the garden mazes of Anet, he nearly succeeded. He jumped out of the hedge and nearly pounced on Mary Beaton, mistaking her in her costume for Mary Fleming. When he realized his mistake, he apologized lamely and scuttled off through the maze. Mary Beaton says it immediately came to her: there must have been something he said, a look in his eyes, she is not sure, but suddenly she realized that he thought she was Mary Fleming. She now understood Mary Fleming’s anguish and sadness. Quickly she sought out Mary Fleming and took her to her apartment, where Mary said indeed she was right. Mary Beaton then went to fetch me and the other two Marys. We sat down at the very table we had set with the clean cloth, the bread, the cheese, and the wine, except we shut the door and did not leave it open for the spirit of our would-be sweethearts. Indeed as we sat down at the table to hear this horrid story, it struck me that this was a complete perversion of the magic and love that the eve was supposed to celebrate.

  Here we sat, five terrified maidens, to hear a lurid tale of a sick old man and how he had made a living hell for our dear Mary Fleming. Luckily he never succeeded in kissing her. It must have been most revolting, but he did try to touch her where he should not. In fact that is how he came to “cut” his hand with a “book knife”. It was not a cut but a bite from Mary’s teeth! I said I would immediately see to having him dismissed. But Mary Fleming protested that he is a favourite of Queen Catherine’s, and that in any case, he would deny everything and then make her look bad and Queen Catherine is already so set against Mary Fleming because of her mother. “Signore Marcellini,” she spoke in a quavering voice, “has told me that this is to be our little secret, and that if I dare say anything, he shall tell everyone that I am just like my mother in my wanton behaviour. And you
know how much the Queen hated my mother. Oh, I am finished, Mary,” she cried. “You must send me back to Scotland. It is the only way.”

  “Never!” I replied. “Why should you have to pay for his foul behaviour?”

  Then Mary Beaton spoke up. Her eyes narrowed in thought as she spoke. “We must catch him. If we witness it, we shall have undeniable evidence.”

  We all fell silent, and as I looked around the table at the four Marys, I realized that this was perhaps not simply five young maids all named Mary, but in a sense this was my first council of war. I listened carefully. I was now weighing in my mind what Mary Beaton had said. I could not be impulsive.

  I realized that the best sovereigns, whether on the battlefield or in the council of the privy chambers of the estates, make decisions with both their heads and their hearts. Wisdom and justice must always be tempered by the most human of instincts. So I turned to Mary Fleming. “If we proceed in this way, Mary, it will mean more discomfort and anguish for you, at least temporarily. What think you of this?”

  “Your Majesty.” The four Marys rarely address me in such a formal way so I knew that indeed I was becoming a sovereign before their eyes. “I have been wrong.”

  I cut her off. “You have not been wrong, Mary. You are the victim, not the culprit. It is his shame, not yours.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty, I understand, but what I was going to say is that I was wrong in not telling you all, my dearest friends, sooner. My anguish is already relieved for the telling, and now with you beside me I think that I can tolerate this temporary discomfort.”