SERVANTS AWAKENED US early the next morning. King Henri expected us to be present at the first of a series of tournaments at his favorite Parisian palace, Hotel des Tournelles. I was drowsy and would have liked to linger there for a while longer, but my new husband fairly leaped from the bed where we had spent our first night together.
“I am to joust with the other men,” he announced. “And I shall carry your colors, my dearest Marie.” His menservants rushed to help him dress, while my ladies and I gathered ourselves at a more leisurely pace.
This was the first of three days of jousting, during which I received an unexpected and not entirely welcome visit from my brother James, whose dark presence had been the only blemish on my wedding day I had seen almost nothing of him since he had traveled with me ten years earlier on the king’s galley from Scotland to France. I was a five-year-old child on that long voyage, and he was sixteen, a young man on his way to Paris to study. He had been destined then for a career in the church, and during this visit he informed me that he had been named prior of St. Andrews in Scotland.
“To be truthful, sister, I have little calling as a churchman. This was our father’s plan for me, but I have not done well.” It appeared that he did not intend to explain his peculiar behavior among the adoring crowds on my wedding day, and I chose not to mention it.
“What is it you wish to do, James?” I asked.
“Why, to live the life of a gentleman,” he replied, as though that should have been obvious. “And to do my duty as a proud Scot. Therefore, I am asking you, as queen of the country in which you no longer live, to grant me the earldom of Moray.”
Unsure how to respond, I decided to put him off until I could ask my mother’s advice. “I will consider your request, dear brother,” I said. “You will receive my answer once you have returned to Scotland.”
As soon as he had been escorted out the door, I wrote to my mother and sent off my coded letter by special courier. Her advice was to refuse him, since granting the earldom would cause trouble with other lords in the north of Scotland, particularly George Gordon, Lord Huntly, and so I did refuse, hoping to hear no more from him. It was obvious from his manner that my brother could barely tolerate me. I had done nothing to offend him, but I could guess at the cause: jealousy. No doubt he wished to be more than an earl; he thought he deserved to be the next king of Scotland.
The wedding festivities were still in progress but were now marred by a grievous accident. One of François’s good friends was severely wounded and lost an eye in a joust. Even this unfortunate event did not diminish the pleasure enjoyed by the court, though neither François nor I could brush it off so easily. I prayed that it was not an ill omen.
***
After the wedding, the court returned to Fontainebleau, moved to Saint-Germain for the summer, stopped in Compiègne for autumn hunting, and moved on to Blois in the Loire Valley as the weather turned cool. The dauphin and I now had adjoining apartments, and he often came to talk late in the evening and stayed to sleep in my bed. I played the lute and sang for my husband, but we did not dance together unless some court event required it. I discovered that he was a keen chess player. We had chessboards set up in several different halls, and we sometimes paused on our way from one hall to another to ponder the next move.
François liked to think over his moves. I made mine quickly “Recklessly,” he said. “You must not make your decisions so hastily.”
“But I usually win,” I reminded him.
In the complicated world of royalty, there were always a number of moves in play on the chessboard that was Europe. Developments in one country always affected the situation in another. Seven months after my marriage to François, we learned of the death of Queen Mary of England. She died childless, and on November 17, 1558, Mary’s half sister, Elizabeth Tudor, became queen. I sat down to write my congratulations to Elizabeth on the occasion of her accession to the throne of England, addressing her as “my dear sister,” the custom among royalty, though we were not truly sisters but first cousins once removed. Elizabeth’s father, the hated Henry VIII, was the brother of my father’s mother.
I was quite unprepared for what the crowning of Elizabeth would mean to me.
“You have a legitimate claim to the throne of England!” my uncles pointed out to me, barely able to conceal their delight.
“Elizabeth is illegitimate,” Uncle Charles added, unable to stop himself from gloating. “Henry’s marriage to her mother—his second wife, Anne Boleyn—was not recognized by the pope. Henry himself dissolved his marriage to his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, mother of the late Queen Mary. What’s more, Elizabeth is Protestant and will surely lead the country away from the true church. Ma chère Marie, you are quite clearly the legitimate ruler of England!”
I knew that Henry had not been allowed to divorce his first wife to marry the second, but until now I had not realized what this could mean to me. The idea was thrilling: I could very possibly be queen of not only Scotland but England and Ireland as well, and, in due time, France. So sure were my uncles and my father-in-law of my right to the English throne that King Henri ordered my coat of arms changed to include the English crown. The heraldic arms of England were now to be quartered with the arms of Scotland and France.
“A direct challenge to the English queen,” my uncles announced triumphantly.
They ordered the coat of arms of England to be boldly displayed with the arms of France and Scotland on every plate, every chest, every piece of furniture that belonged to my husband. This new coat of arms was also stitched on the livery worn by my servants. When I was on my way to Mass or anywhere else, the ushers who walked ahead of me were instructed to cry, “Make way for the queen of England!”
Then my uncle the cardinal journeyed to Rome to meet with Pope Paul IV and to present the case that I, Marie Stuart, was the true and rightful heir to the throne of England.
He returned with a report that disappointed us all. The pope had refused to declare Elizabeth Tudor illegitimate, putting an end to the dream that I would become queen of England, Ireland, and Scotland. The pope was afraid to go against the wishes of powerful King Philip II of Spain, who wished to stay on good terms with Elizabeth. It was rumored that he had proposed marriage to her when her half sister, Mary, his wife, was scarcely in her tomb. Elizabeth had refused him. It was only after her refusal that Philip had proposed to marry our own dear Princesse Élisabeth.
Then King Henri too began to believe that it was a mistake to challenge Elizabeth of England. He even seemed to lose some of his great affection for my heroic uncle François, who had won Calais back from the English. When Le Balafré asked to be made grand master of the king’s household as a reward for his brave leadership, the king refused! My uncle’s pride was hurt. Then the French signed a treaty with England, heaping praise on Queen Elizabeth. I had to make a speech saying how much the treaty pleased me.
That was a lie. It did not please me, but no one cared in the least what I thought.
Meanwhile, word got back to Elizabeth that I believed I had a better claim to the throne of England than she did. And that angered her.
No one was pleased.