by Jean Plaidy
Mary was unable to feel anything but excitement. She had almost forgotten the terror of seeing English ships on the horizon. It seemed a long time ago when her brothers had stood about her with Lords Erskine and Livingstone, determined to defend her should the need arise. The saints had answered their prayers, and the wind had turned in their favor, so that they were able to speed across the rough waters until the English dropped below the horizon. Now here they were in sight of France, and their galley was drawing in to the little Brittany port of Roscoff.
As soon as she stepped ashore Mary was made aware of the magnitude of the welcome which was to be given to her.
The little port was festooned with gay banners, and the people had come for miles round to line the shore and shout a welcome to la Reinette. In this they were obeying the orders of the King, who had said: “Welcome the little Queen of Scots as though she were already my daughter.”
And when these people saw the little girl—so small and dainty—with her four attendants the same age as herself, in their fur-lined capes, they were enchanted.
“Vive la petite Reine!” they cried; and Mary, sensing their admiration, smiled and bowed so prettily that they cried out that she was delightful, this little girl who had come to them from the savages.
The progress across France began. From Roscoff the procession made its way to Nantes, Mary sometimes riding on a small horse, sometimes carried in a litter; and each town through which they passed had its welcome for her. Accustomed to the more restrained greetings of her own countrymen and-women, Mary was enchanted by the gaiety of these French who were so ready to drink to her health and make a fête day of her short stay in their towns or villages.
At Nantes a gaily decorated barge was awaiting her and she, in what proved to be a glorious river pageant, sailed with her entourage up the river Loire through the villages and vineyards of Anjou and Touraine, where the people lined the riverbank to call a welcome to her. When she left the barge and went ashore in her litter, the people crowded around her, their eyes flashing, laughter bubbling from their lips, and she thought them the merriest people she had ever seen. How could she be homesick for those castles which had been nothing more than prisons! Here the people were not only gay but friendly. It was an informal pageant in which the laborers from the vineyard, the tillers of the soil, and plump peasant women, joined merrily.
She had never witnessed anything like it and she was as delighted with the French as the French were with her.
But when they left the barge at Tours, the journey became more of a royal progress, for waiting to greet her was her grandfather Claude Duc de Guise, and her grandmother, the Duchesse, was with him—she who before her marriage had been Antoinette de Bourbon.
These great personages received her with much ceremony, but when they were alone her grandmother took the child on her knee and embraced her. “You are indeed a pretty child,” she said; and her eyes gleamed, as did those of the Duke her husband, for the fortunes of the mighty house of Guise and Lorraine rested on this dainty child’s shoulders.
“I shall write and tell your uncle François that he will love you,” went on her grandmother.
“Is my uncle François not here then, Grandmother?”
“No, my child, he is much occupied with the affairs of the country. So are his brothers. But they will be delighted, all of them, to hear what a dear little girl you are.”
Her grandfather talked to her too. He reminded her that while she was Queen of Scotland she was also a member of the noble house of Guise and Lorraine.
“We stand together, my little one. One for all and all for each. That is the rule of our family. Soon you will be meeting your uncles. Your uncle Charles will keep you under his wing.”
Mary listened gravely. She had heard most of it already from her mother.
The Duchesse traveled with the party by river to Orléans where they disembarked and continued by road through Chartres.
“You will be housed,” the Duchesse told Mary, “with the royal children—the Dauphin and his little sister Elizabeth. The little Princess Claude and Prince Louis are babies still. The King has decided that you shall live at the palace of Saint-Germain as soon as it is sweetened. Meanwhile you will stay nearby at Carrières.”
“When shall I see the King and Queen?” asked Mary.
“Ah, you go too fast. The Court is at Moulins, so to begin with you will make the acquaintance of the royal children. The King wishes the meeting to be informal. You understand, my child? The King loves children and thinks tenderly of them—not only his own but others also. He has decided that you shall come to know the children with a complete absence of ceremony. He is anxious that you should love each other. You are to share a room with Madame Elisabeth. She is only three and a half. He hopes that you will be particularly fond of the Dauphin.”
“I shall, I know I shall. I am going to take great care of him.”
The Duchesse laughed. “Ah, my little one, you have the proud spirit of a Guise. So the Queen of a savage land will take great care of the heir of France, eh?”
“But he is younger than I,” protested Mary. “And I hear that he is not strong.”
Madame de Guise patted her shoulder. “You are right, my child. You must take every care of him, for on him will depend your future… and that of others. Let it not be too obvious care. Let it be loving tenderness. I know you will be a credit to us. There is another matter. The King is pleased to allow your four little friends to be with you, but he wants them to go away after the first few days at Carrières. No! Do not be afraid. The King has heard of your love for them and he would not for the world part you from them. But for a little while he wishes you to be alone in the royal nursery with François and Elisabeth. He wants no other children to come between you for a little while.”
“It will only be for a little while?”
“For a very little while. You need have no fear, dear child. You will be happy in our royal nurseries.”
“The King is a very good king,” said Mary. “The Queen … is she beautiful?”
“All queens are beautiful,” said the Duchesse lightly.
“Does she too say that she wants me to love François and Elisabeth?”
“The Queen agrees with the King in all things.”
Mary was intelligent. She noticed that the manner of her grandmother changed when she mentioned the Queen of France. Why? wondered Mary.
She was longing to see the Dauphin and his little sister; she was longing to see the King; but oddly enough, as she explained to her Marys, she felt more curious about the Queen.
THE MEETING between the children was unceremonious as it had been intended it should be. In the big room at Carrières Mary went forward to greet them. With them were their Governor and Governess, the Maréchal d’Humières and Madame d’Humières. With Mary were her grandmother and the members of her suite.
The Dauphin stared at Mary. She was taller than he was. His legs were thin and spindly and it seemed as though the weight of his body would break them. His head seemed too large for the rest of him and he was very pale.
Mary’s tenderness—always ready to be aroused—overwhelmed her. She knelt and kissed his hand. He stared at her wonderingly; and rising she put her arms about him and kissed him. “I have come to love you and be your playmate,” she said.
The little boy immediately responded to her embrace.
Mary broke away and glanced with some apprehension at her grandmother. They had said no ceremony, but had she been too impulsive in embracing the Dauphin?
The Duchesse was far from displeased. She had noticed the little boys response. She glanced at Madame d’Humières. What a pity that the King is not here to see this! that glance implied. He would be quite enchanted.
Madame d’Humières nodded in agreement. It was always wise to agree with the Guises, providing such agreement would not be frowned on by the King’s mistress.
Mary had turned to the three-and-a-half-year-old Elis
abeth, a frail and pretty little girl; and what a pleasure it was for the Duchesse to see a princess of France kneel to her granddaughter! Madame Elisabeth knew what was expected of her. Had not the King said: “Mary Stuart shall be as one of my own children, but because she is a queen she shall take precedence over my daughter”?
Mary looked into the face of the little girl and, because the child was so small and because she had embraced her brother, the little Queen could not resist embracing the Princess also.
Her grandmother advanced toward the group, at which the two royal children seemed to move closer to Mary as though expecting she would protect them from her important relative.
But the Duchesse merely smiled at them and turned to the Maréchal and Madame d’Humières.
“So charming, is it not?” she said. “The King will be delighted. They love each other on sight. Let us leave them together. Then they will be more natural, and when the King slips in unceremoniously he will be delighted with our way of bringing them together.”
When Mary was alone with the two children, she took a hand of each and led them to the window seat.
“I have just come here,” she said. “First I came on a big ship. Then I rode in a litter. Then I came on another ship. I have come from far… far away.”
The Dauphin held her hand in his and clung to it when she would have released it. Elisabeth regarded her gravely. Neither of the French children had ever seen anyone quite like her. Her flashing eyes, her vivacious manners, her strange dress and her queer way of talking overwhelmed and fascinated them. Elisabeth’s gravity broke into a quiet smile and the Dauphin lifted his shoulders until they almost touched his big head; and all the time he insisted that his hand should remain in that of the newcomer.
He was already telling himself that he was never going to let her go. He was going to keep her with him forever.
MARY HAD LIVED at Carrières for two weeks. She was the Queen of the nurseries. Elisabeth accepted her leadership in everything they did; François asked nothing but to be her devoted slave.
She was a little imperious at times, for after all she was older than they were; she was so much cleverer. She read to them; she would sit on the window seat, her arm about François while Elisabeth tried to follow the words in the book. She told them stories and of games she had played with her four Marys with whom she hoped soon to be reunited; she told of the island of Inchmahome in the lake of Menteith whither she had gone one dark night, wrapped in a cloak, fleeing from the wicked English. She told of the long journey across the seas, of the high waters and the roaring winds and of how the English ships had sighted hers on the horizon, for of course they were on the prowl looking for her.
These adventures made her an exciting person; her age made her such a wise one; and her vitality, so sadly lacking in the French children, made her an entertaining companion; but perhaps it was her beauty which strengthened her power.
Thus it was when one day there came into the nurseries unannounced a tall man with a beard which was turning to silver; he was dressed in black velvet and there were jewels on his clothes. With him came a lady—the loveliest Mary had ever seen.
The children immediately ran forward and threw themselves at the man. This was one of the occasions to which they looked forward. If there had been others present it would have been necessary to bow and kiss hands, but this was one of those pleasurably anticipated occasions when the two came alone.
“Papa! Papa!” cried François.
The big man picked him up and the lady kissed Francois’s cheek.
Elisabeth was holding fast to his doublet and there was love and confidence in the way her little fingers curled about the black velvet.
“This will not do! This will not do!” cried the man. “My children, what of our guest?”
Then he lowered François to the floor. François immediately caught the lady’s hand and they all advanced to the Queen of Scots who had fallen to her knees, for she knew that the big man with the silvering beard was Henri, King of France.
“Come,” he said in a deep rumbling voice which Mary thought was the kindest she had ever heard, “let us look at you. So you are Mary Stuart from across the seas?”
“At Your Majesty’s service,” said Mary.
He laid his hand on her head and turned to the lady beside him. “I think we shall be pleased with our new daughter,” he said.
Mary flushed charmingly and turned to kneel to the lady. She took the slim white hand and kissed the great diamond on her finger.
“Yes, indeed,” said the lady, “our new daughter enchants me.”
“I am happy,” said Mary, in her charming French, “to know that I have not displeased Your Majesties.”
They laughed and the Dauphin said: “Mary has come across the sea. She came on a boat and then on another boat and she reads to us.”
The King stooped then and picked up the boy, swinging him above his head. “You must borrow Marys rosy looks, my son,” he said.
Elisabeth was quietly waiting to be picked up and kissed, and when it was her turn she put her arms about her fathers neck and kissed him; then she buried her face in his beard.
The beautiful lady, whom Mary assumed to be the Queen, said: “Come and kiss me, Mary.”
Mary did so.
“Why, what a fine girl you are!” The soft white fingers patted Mary’s cheeks. “The King and I are glad you have come to join our children.” She smiled fondly at the King who returned the smile with equal fondness over the smooth head of Elisabeth. In a sudden rush of affection for them both, Mary kissed their hands afresh.
“I am so happy,” she said, “to be your new daughter.”
The King sat in the big state chair which was kept in the apartment for those occasions when he visited his children. He took Mary and the Dauphin on his knees. The lady sat on a stool, holding Elisabeth.
The King told them that there was to be a grand wedding at the Court. It was Mary’s uncle who was to be married.
“Now, my children, Mary’s uncle, the Due d’Aumale, must have a grand wedding, must he not? He would be displeased if the Dauphin did not honor him by dancing at his wedding.”
The Dauphin’s eyes opened wide with horror. “Papa… no!” he cried. “I do not want to dance at the wedding.”
“You do not want to dance at a fine wedding! You do, Mary, do you not?”
“Yes, I do,” said Mary. “I love to dance.” She put out her hand and took that of the Dauphin. “I will teach you to dance with me, François. Shall I?”
The grown-ups exchanged glances and the King said in rapid French which Mary could not entirely understand: “This is the most beautiful, the most charming child I ever saw.”
THE CHILDREN were alone. Mary was explaining to the Dauphin that there was nothing to be frightened of in the dance. It was easy to dance. It was delightful to dance.
“And the King wishes it,” said Mary. “And as he is the best king in the world, you must please him.”
The Dauphin agreed that this was so.
While they practiced the dance, Elisabeth sat on a cushion watching them. The door silently opened, but Mary did not hear it, so intent was she on the dance. She noticed first the change in Elisabeth who had risen to her feet. The smile had left Elisabeth’s face. She seemed suddenly to have become afraid. Now the Dauphin had seen what Elisabeth saw. He too stood very still, like a top-heavy statue.
There was a woman standing in the doorway, a woman with a pale flat face and expressionless eyes. Mary took an immediate dislike to her, for she had brought something into the room which Mary did not understand and which was repellent to her. The woman was dressed without magnificence and Mary assumed that she was a noblewoman of minor rank. Hot-tempered as she was, she let her anger rise against the intruder.
As Queen of the nursery, the spoiled charge of easy-going Lady Fleming, the petted darling of almost everyone with whom she had come into contact since her arrival in this country, fresh from her t
riumph with the King, she said quickly: “Pray do not interrupt us while we practice.”
The woman did not move. She laughed suddenly and unpleasantly. The little French children had stepped forward and knelt before her. Over their heads she regarded the Queen of Scots.
“What will you do, Mademoiselle?” asked the woman. “Are you going to turn me out of my nurseries?”
“Madame,” said Mary, drawing herself to her full height, “it is the Queen of Scotland to whom you speak.”
“Mademoiselle,” was the reply, “it is the Queen of France to whom you speak.”
“N-No!” protested Mary. But the kneeling children had made her aware of the unforgivable mistake she had made. She was terrified. She would be sent back to Scotland for such behavior. She had been guilty not only of a great breach of good manners; she had insulted the Queen of France.
“Madame,” she began, “I humbly beg …”
Again the harsh laugh rang out; but Mary scarcely heard it as she knelt before the Queen, first pale with horror, then red with shame.
“We all make mistakes,” said Catherine de Médicis, “even Queens of such great countries as Scotland. You may rise. Let me look at you.”
As Mary obeyed she realized that there were two queens: one lovely and loving who came with the King, who kissed the children and called them hers and behaved in every way as though she were their mother, and another who came alone, who frightened them and yet, it seemed, was after all their mother and the true Queen of France.
TWO
TO MARY, LIFE IN THOSE FIRST MONTHS WAS FULL OF PLEASURE. It was true there were times when the Queen of France would come silently into the nursery, laugh her sudden loud laughter, make her disconcerting remarks, and when little François and Elisabeth would, while displaying great decorum, shrink closer to Mary as though asking her to protect them. But Mary was gay by nature and wished to ignore that which was unpleasant.
Often King Henri and Madame Diane came to the nursery to play with them, to caress them and make them feel secure and contented. It had not taken Mary long to discover that if Queen Catherine were Queen in name, Diane was Queen in all else.
