At St.-Germain, they were shown into the grandest room, the Salle des
Audiences. If this was intended to overawe them, it failed. As a
ploy, it was too transparent. Their own chateau of Meudon had equally
impressive rooms. Now the Italian Woman, the Queen, she was more
subtle .. . one never knew exactly where one stood with the Italian
Woman, or what her secret designs were.
Madame de Poitiers brought little Mary Stewart or Marie Stuart, as she
was to be known in France into the hall. The little girl, dressed
beautifully in a russet gown that matched her long, curly hair and
reflected the blush of colour on her cheeks, came forward shyly.
The adults all made obeisance to her, as an anointed and reigning
Queen. She stared at the tops of their hats and then gave them leave
to stand up. They all looked at one another for a long moment until
the Duchesse de Guise commanded through the translator, "Come here,
child, and let me look at you!"
Mary walked slowly over to her grandmother. Was this truly her
mother's mother? She did not look like her. Was this the mother who
had held Marie de Guise, taught her, and written long letters to her in
Scotland? She had seen her mother wait for them and read them
eagerly.
Mary presented herself to this stern-looking woman. Then the lady
smiled, held out her arms, and enfolded Mary in them.
"Thank you for coming to us," she murmured, but of course Mary could
not understand her, and the words were too soft and personal for a
translator to interpret them. She understood the intent, though, and
hugged the old woman back.
"Now you must meet your uncles," said her grandmother, pulling back and
indicating them.
"Your mother is my firstborn, my oldest child. My favourite, I think!
And my next-born is Francois here, Duc de Guise, who is a great soldier
of France, champion of the King, and eager to do service for you
whenever you require it. They call him fearless and truly he is well
known for his courage, which he has proved over and over."
Duc Francois came forward and kissed her hand.
"My next son, Charles oh, he is altogether different. He is a scholar
and a churchman, although there are those" she put her arms
affectionately around the shoulders of her two tall sons "who think he
is more handsome than his brother here."
This was dutifully translated.
"I am sure His Majesty the King would be well pleased to see Cardinal
Charles direct his niece la Reinette d'Ecosse in her education," said
Madame de Poitiers. "Certainly there is no one better qualified."
The Guises all smiled. So the King had already decided that. So much
the better.
"Do you know Latin, Marie?" asked the Cardinal.
"Not yet."
"Ah, yes, soon enough. First there must be French!"
"I believe His Majesty will arrange that as soon as he comes. She
makes good progress in learning it every day on her own, and has no
accent at all, but it may be necessary to send the other Scots children
away, lest she talk to them and impede her development in French. We
shall see."
"Indeed." The grandmother nodded. "Soon all things will become
clear."
"I think you will find her almost entirely French already," said Madame
de Poitiers. "It must be in her blood."
A month passed before the King arrived at St.-Germain, a month in which
Mary and her playmates were free to roam the chateau and its grounds,
to ride and walk along the riverbanks and see the autumnal countryside
sunk in mists and morning chill. Mary and Francois genuinely liked one
another; if Francois's timidity and frailty brought out all her gentle
feelings, her vitality and happy disposition seemed like sunshine to
him, warming and cheering his bleak and lonely nature. He was a year
and a month younger than she, and looked up to her in the way a child
does to whom a year is a very grand thing.
When Mary and the King did meet, it came about in a very informal way,
to the disappointment of foreign ambassadors lurking about hoping to
catch the historic moment. The King had just entered the courtyard of
the chateau, with his entourage, when Mary and her four Marys and
Francois rode out from the stables on their ponies. Dressed in bright
velvets, they looked like a procession of dolls, little feathers waving
on their hats.
Enchanted, the King dismounted and walked over to the trotting party,
holding up his hands.
"Are these faerie folk, riding out into a magic forest?" he said,
smiling. He took off his riding hat and looked for Francois. To his
surprise and delight, he was there, sitting jauntily in the saddle.
"Papa!" he cried. Then he turned to Mary and said, "This is my
father, the King! He has come at last!"
Mary stared at him, seeing a man with a long, thin face and slanted
eyes. The mouth was smiling, but the eyes were unreadable.
"Bonjour, Your Majesty," she said quickly, and smiled back at him.
What a pleasing voice she had, the King thought. And that smile! It
was radiant.
"Good morning, Your Majesty," he replied, and then, to his surprise,
Mary came over to him.
"I am so happy to be here," she said simply. "I love France! And I
love Francois, the Dauphin!"
The King was relieved; so relieved he felt as though some mysterious
benefactor had suddenly paid all the outstanding debts of the Crown.
(It was a scene he often wistfully envisioned, so he knew full well how
he would feel.) The girl was normal! Well-formed, well-spoken, pretty,
sprightly! In exchange for taking on the burden of Scotland a burden
that grew greater every day he had received a treasure after all. His
Francois would be cherished, and would respond in kind, and if anything
could promise him health.. ..
"Postpone your ride for a few moments," he said, "and come inside with
me all of you!" he ordered.
His heart was singing, or as close to singing as it ever got.
The next day was rainy, with a cold, penetrating, intermittent rain
that stripped the golden leaves off the trees and turned their limbs
into black skeletons. There would be no riding that day; but the
children, with the first excitement of staying indoors before it had
grown stale and confining looked forward to playing rois et reines:
kings and queens. They had decided to act out the story of Charlemagne
and have him meet an evil queen of the forest who was holding four
princesses captive (after first feeding them poisoned mushrooms to put
them to sleep), and rescue them, with the help of his knights.
Francois, of course, got to be Charlemagne; the four Marys were the
victims of Mary, who got the best role as the evil queen, and the three
Stewart boys were Charlemagne's knights. They built a castle of stools
and boards, and created a forest by ordering the servitors to bring in
the tub bed greenery from the terrace. The volets de chambre were
displeased about the mess, but Frangois ordered them most imperiously
to hold their tongues and do as they were told.
The game was well under way when Francois had to seek out the garderobe
in a corner chamber. The greengage pears he had eaten for petit
dejeuner had upset his digestion, so the Great and Mighty Charlemagne
had to go relieve himself in the midst of a charge against the
castle.
"Look your last upon your victims, villainess!" he cried to Mary.
"Prepare to die! I shall return!"
When a few moments later the door opened, the last scene of the drama
recommenced: the maidens lay back down stiffly like marzipan dolls, the
knights flourished their daggers, and Mary drew herself up for the
final battle. But instead of the great Charlemagne in his breastplate
made by strapping two meat platters together in stepped a squat little
woman.
"What is this?" she demanded. "What is this mess?" She looked with
distaste at the tub-forest, the stool-fortress, and the soldiers' tents
made of bed hangings. "Where is the Dauphin?"
When no one answered her, she ordered, "Remove these things! Clean up
this mess! Who gave you permission? Servants' children, having the
free run of the nursery your parents will answer for this!"
Still no one obeyed partly because they could not understand the exact
words, although they understood the intent well enough and the woman
became enraged.
"I tell you, do as I command! Are you deaf, you little urchins?"
Mary left the bulwark of the pillows making up the ramparts of her
castle and stepped forward. Looking the woman directly in the eyes,
she said, in halting French, "Are you aware, Madame, that you are
speaking to, and in the presence of, the Queen of Scotland?" She
lifted up her chin bravely.
"And are you aware," said the woman nastily, "that you are in the
presence of, and speaking disrespectfully to, the Queen of France?" She
watched smugly for chagrin and embarrassment to flood the little girl's
face. But Mary's expression only changed to puzzlement and confusion.
Clearly she did not think this woman looked very queenly.
"No, Madame," she said slowly, but with gravity and courtesy.
The two stared at one another, until Francois came in and shrieked,
"Marram!" and ran to her. "Manum, here is my own dear Marie, come
from Scotland!" and buried himself in her arms.
"Well," said Catherine de M dicis. "We have all been curious about
you, and so anxiously awaiting your arrival." She looked down at
Francois. "Does she please you, darling?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Then she pleases me as well. Welcome, little Marie."
EIGHT
AS Mary passed her days in the palace suite with the French royal
children, France itself came to seem a rainbow swirl of colours to her,
and Scotland resolved itself into a dark mist that receded farther and
farther with each year, until she remembered almost nothing of it, the
way she remembered only shreds of dreams upon awaking.
The light in France was clear, soft, and merry, especially the light in
the Loire Valley, where the court travelled from one magical chateau to
another, following the seasons and the hunt. There was Amboise, with
its huge circular tower that had a spiral ramp that horsemen could ride
up, five abreast, and its geometrical gardens with arabesques of
boxwood and sculptures of naked men and women set in groves of
evergreen. Uncle the Cardinal said this was quite all right because
they were from ancient Rome and anyway he had a number of them in his
own villa, where he had built an artificial grotto as well.
There was Blois, with its grand staircase in an octagonal tower, where
Mary liked to look out over the courtyard and wave to the people far
below. Its gardens had elaborate fountains that could be operated to
put on a water display, or to squirt passersby, and a magical house
called an arangerie, where orange trees could grow their fruit far from
their native land.
There was Chaumont, with its astronomical observatory and the study
where Ruggieri, the Queen's astronomer some said necromancer kept his
instruments. Mary was not supposed to go up there, but once she
climbed the steep steps to the tower room and surprised Ruggieri, who
was polishing a large flat mirror. He jumped like a guilty man, but
then, like everyone else, smiled when he saw who it was.