DURING MY THIRTEENTH YEAR, and then my fourteenth, my studies occupied most of my hours. Still, I found time for music. I practiced the lute and the harp, the clavichord and the virginals. My music teacher assured me that my singing voice was quite pleasant, though it is possible that some of the praise was mere flattery I loved to dance and nearly always took part in the ballet, a form of dance that Queen Catherine had enjoyed watching in her childhood in Italy and introduced to the French court. But above all else I adored poetry.
I fairly worshiped Pierre de Ronsard, known in France as the prince of poets. A gaunt-faced man with close-cropped hair and a trim little beard, Monsieur Ronsard had traveled to Scotland with the court of my father’s first wife, Madeleine of France. After Madeleine died, Monsieur Ronsard left Scotland and roamed the world before returning to settle in France. His was not like the classical poetry I was assigned to study; it was written in the simple, natural words of the people. I had read the work of the Italian poet Dante. Ronsard’s poetry was like that: elegant, pure, the language of the heart.
I read his poetry and listened to it read and sung, and I began to write poetry myself. For several carefree years I danced and sang, made music and wrote poems, rode horses and followed the hunt and enjoyed the company of my dogs and my family and my friends. My education was nearly complete. It was a wonderful life, and it never occurred to me that it would not go on forever.
In December of 1557, my fifteenth birthday was observed with feasting and music. There was an even greater celebration when the dauphin, François, turned fourteen a month later, just days after my uncle François thrilled the whole nation by wresting the port city of Calais away from the English, who had ruled it for more than two hundred years.
My uncle was now a national hero, praised as a military genius and lauded throughout France for his valor. No one had believed the French would ever see the last vestiges of the English removed from their country. Now the nation was giddy with joy, and in the midst of this buoyant mood King Henri decided that the time was right for the betrothal and the wedding of the dauphin, François de Valois, to Marie Stuart, queen of Scots. Diane de Poitiers brought me the news.
“Most of the forty days of Lent will be spent in preparations for the event,” said the duchess. “I shall oversee the planning and the details. You may be assured that everything will be of the utmost elegance and to your complete liking.”
My Four Maries were in ecstasies over the coming events. Princesse Élisabeth was delighted. But most excited of all was the dauphin, François.
“It is happening, Marie!” my future husband squealed joyously. “We are to be m-m-married very soon, and then we shall be together all the time! I shall never be apart from you, and you shall have my whole heart forever,” he added solemnly, bringing my hand to his lips and covering it with kisses.
François was clearly devoted to me. We were best friends, as close as brother and sister. But in the swirl of excitement surrounding our coming wedding, I could not imagine how these feelings of kinship were to change into what I vaguely understood were the feelings of passion that existed between a husband and wife. Madame de Poitiers had promised she would speak to me on the subject. Oddly, it was Queen Catherine who spoke to me about it first.
She dismissed her ladies in waiting, something she had rarely done in my presence. “Ma chère Marie,” she began when we were alone, “I want to talk to you honestly, an older woman to a young, inexperienced one. You are about to marry my son, as has been arranged and understood since you were both tiny children. Your living here among us for nearly ten years has allowed you to become acquainted with us in a way that is frankly unusual for a royal bride. I did not meet my husband until the night before our wedding, not an easy thing for a young girl, and I know that one day I will see my own sweet daughters in that same situation.” She smiled faintly, staring off into the distance. “This does not mean it cannot end well for them, of course. I fell in love with Henri from the beginning.”
That, I thought, is an untruth, or at the very least an exaggeration. But I murmured, “Oui, madame ma reine,” and kept my eyes on my embroidery, waiting for whatever the queen was about to say.
“I am very well satisfied you will make an excellent consort for my son. But you know that I am always concerned about his delicate health. He is very brave and follows his father into the jousting lists as though he were a grown man of robust health. But he is not. Far from it!” She hesitated, watching me intently. “I fear that he has not yet reached manhood. Do you understand me, Marie?”
“Oui, madame, je comprends,” I replied. “I understand.”
I did not need to be told that François was still physically a child. La Flamin, the most knowledgeable of the Four Maries, having had older brothers in her household in Scotland, had stated it bluntly: “He is still just a boy, Marie. The dauphin has not started his growth—he is more than a head shorter than you. His voice is as sweet as a babe’s, and at fourteen it should be breaking. No soft fuzz on his cheeks, or anywhere else, I wager,” she said, causing me to blush and turn away “But,” my friend continued, “that does not mean he will not have all he needs in the next six months or so.”
His mother was telling me much the same thing. I had become a woman, but the dauphin, whom I was soon to marry, was not yet a man.
“I believe there is no rush to marry,” said Queen Catherine, looking directly at me. I longed to look away, to avoid her steady gaze, but her eyes held mine. “However, my husband, the king, has been persuaded by your Guise uncles that the time is right to go forward with the marriage. It will do no good for me to oppose it, though I have expressed my opinion strongly to the king. Nor do you have any say in the matter, Marie. I have heard that Madame de Poitiers also opposes the immediacy of the wedding, preferring to delay it for a while longer. But she too seems powerless to change the king’s mind.”
I thought I detected a twitch of satisfaction in the queen’s mouth when she stated that her rival, too, had limits to the amount of power she could exert once the king had made up his mind. Now I was more curious than ever to learn what Diane de Poitiers would say to me.
Secrecy surrounded the plans for the wedding, which was to be one of the grandest events ever to take place in Paris. Madame de Poitiers assumed responsibility for directing it all—from the viewing stands to be erected outside the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris, to the musicians who must learn music for all the parts of the celebration, to the cooks who would prepare the wedding feasts, and not forgetting the glove makers and embroiderers and seamstresses who would be creating the finery for everyone participating in the ceremony. And my wedding gown!
There was one issue on which I had made up my mind to stand firm, no matter what forces might be brought to bear against me. I had learned, to my dismay, that white was the traditional color of mourning for French queens and so was never worn at weddings. I was determined that white was going to be the color of my wedding gown, even if it meant defying convention. I knew what I wanted, and I saw no reason why I should not have my way.
“The color of the lily,” I said firmly. “That is what I shall have.”
There was surprise at my choice, maybe even some shock, but no argument. I think they understood that if I was old enough to marry, I was old enough to make certain decisions. This was one of them.
***
Early in April, while the court was still in residence at Fontainebleau, two of my uncles invited me to dine with them in their private apartments. This was unusual. I had entertained each of them in my quarters—my uncle François and his lovely wife, Anne d’Este, on several occasions, and at other times the cardinal. I took pride in providing excellent food and drink. I had never been invited to dine with just the two brothers of my mother, and I felt this must be a meeting of grave importance. I expected that they would have advice of various kinds to offer me, and I looked forward to hearing it. It was a step toward my future as queen of France, my role when my husband someday became king.
“We wish to go over the nuptial contract that is being put in place for your protection,” said Uncle François.
I nodded agreeably. “I will do whatever you think is appropriate.”
He smiled and patted my hand. I dearly loved this uncle, who was like a father to me and was now hailed as a hero wherever he went. I would have done whatever he asked.
“In fact, there are two nuptial contracts. The first”—he handed me a document—“is quite straightforward, prepared by the commissioners in the Scottish Parliament, with the approval of our sister the queen mother, all of them acting in your best interests.”
Yes, I thought, my mother will have made sure everything is exactly as it should be. I signed my name.
“There is a second contract we wish you to sign, Marie,” said my uncle the cardinal. “But you must say nothing about this to anyone. Not anyone! Do I have your word?”
I raised my hand and promised.
“Bien," said Uncle Charles. “Good. By the terms of this treaty, you agree that should you die without having produced children by François de Valois, the kingdom of Scotland and any rights you might have to the crown of England will be given over to the king of France, and all revenues will be paid to the king of France until the sum of a million gold crowns is reached.”
The papers lay on the table in front of me, several pages densely written in French. There was the place I was to sign. The sharpened quill and block of ink lay ready I tried to read through them, to understand exactly what they authorized. I read French very well, but I found these documents hard to comprehend. The letters swam before my eyes. My uncles hovered over me. “I am to promise that Scotland will be turned over to the king of France if I die without heirs?”
“In that extremely unlikely circumstance,” my uncles agreed.
“And a million gold crowns as well?” I did understand that this was an enormous sum.
“S’il vous plaît, Marie,” said my soldier uncle, “remember that France has protected Scotland from the English for years and will continue to do so. The death of Henry the Eighth did little to stop the raids at the border between England and Scotland. During his brief rule, Edward the Sixth did not stop them, and Queen Mary Tudor has done no better. It is only right and proper that in the unlikely event that you fail to produce heirs, the king of France should be compensated for his efforts and his great expense on behalf of Scotland. And of course, King Henri will continue to be Scotland’s protector. For that you are grateful, I am sure.”
“Oui, grateful, of course,” I murmured. There seemed to be much more to it, and perhaps I did not grasp it all. But in the end I decided that I must trust my Guise uncles, as I always had, these two who had faithfully stood by my side and would surely continue to do so.
I picked up the pen and signed my name in large, even letters: Marie Stuart.
We were not yet finished. “Just one more document, ma chère nièce, ” said the cardinal. Uncle François stepped out of the apartment, and while he was gone I thought I might look more carefully at the document I was about to sign and perhaps learn under what conditions Scotland would leave French hands and be returned to the Scots, but the cardinal distracted me with questions and comments about the coming wedding celebration. I had no chance to examine this third document before my uncle reappeared, this time in the company of my future husband. Both of us were to sign this paper, which stated that the previous two documents were valid and would remain valid no matter what promises I had made in the past or what contracts I might sign in the future. I did not fully realize then, nor did I for some time after, that I had signed away Scotland forever and made it a gift to France if I should die without leaving a living child.
The dauphin and I signed. My uncles looked pleased and—I think now—relieved.
The doors of the small room where we had met were opened wide. Musicians appeared seemingly out of nowhere, and a supper had been laid out. Anne d’Este and other specially invited friends of the Guise family, including a jubilant King Henri, joined us for a celebration. It was the first of many.
That was the fourth of April. A few days later the court moved to Paris, where on April 19, 1558, François de Valois and I would plight our troth in the great hall of the Palais du Louvre, where I had given my Latin oration. The wedding would take place five days after the betrothal. There still remained so much to think about and so much to be done—gowns fitted, headdresses created, a trousseau prepared—that I forgot all about the documents I had signed and the promises I had made in them.