‘ALL I CAN tell you is that I account myself one of the happiest women in the world.’1 For Mary, Queen of Scots, the year 1558 was to be when she finally came into her own as a great and glorious queen-in-waiting, the wife of the heir to an empire. After nearly ten years of living at the French court, she was at last married to Francis, the Dauphin of France – and therefore beginning her new life as queen of both France and Scotland. She hoped and believed she would soon add Queen of England and Ireland to her titles.
This was the year that changed everything for Mary and her rival queen-in-waiting, Elizabeth, for it was in 1558 that the fight for England began.
Mary had become Queen of Scotland at only six days old when her father James V collapsed after defeat by the English at the Battle of Solway Moss. He died on 14 December 1542, reputed to have said in his final hours that ‘It came wi’ a lass, it’ll gang [end] wi’ a lass’ – a dual reference to the story that the Scots were descended from the great Egyptian Princess Scota, and to the Stuart dynasty gaining the throne through Marjorie Bruce, the daughter of Robert the Bruce. His doom-laden view of female leadership – that the Stuarts would ‘gang’ with Mary – was shared by his people. Mary was never allowed to forget her father’s words and the implication that her birth had hastened his death. But in 1558, all that seemed behind her. Mary, a queen in her own right, was the greatest prize on the marriage market. When she became Queen of France, she could esteem herself the most powerful woman in the world.
The wedding between fifteen-year-old Mary and the fourteen-year-old dauphin was a dazzling spectacle. King Henry II had turned the great Parisian cathedral of Notre-Dame into a fantasia of regal glory, with a stage outside the church and a walkway to the palace that was twelve feet high, hung over with a canopy of azure silk embroidered with golden fleurs-de-lys. The members of the wedding party assembled at the palace and then walked through in their finery, showing off their glitter to the gathering crowds. The entire city had devoted itself to celebrating the wedding, the buildings decorated with flowers and banners strewn with fleurs-de-lys and the marigold, Mary’s symbol. Temporary theatres were put up to entertain; food sellers wove between the people, selling cakes, wine, meat.
The crowds longed to see the bride, the Scottish queen. They had some time to wait. Just before eleven o’clock came the Swiss Guards, resplendent in their uniforms, playing tambourines and fifes. Then Mary’s uncle, Francis, Duke of Guise, the official master of ceremonies – and then a marvellous throng: musicians dressed in red and yellow playing every instrument from the trumpet and oboe to the violin; a hundred gentlemen of the king; the princes of the blood; abbots and bishops, archbishops, cardinals and the papal legate. Then came Francis the bridegroom with his brother Charles, and Anthony, the Duke of Vendôme. Catherine de’ Medici, escorted by Anthony’s brother and a dozen princesses, duchesses and ladies, including the young princesses (and the king’s mistress, Diane de Poitiers), formed the final part of the procession, all sumptuously attired. Right at the end came Mary, escorted by her cousin, the Duke of Lorraine, and the King of France himself.
The Queen of Scots was a vision. ‘A hundred times more beautiful than a goddess of heaven,’ declared a courtier, Pierre de Brantôme, ‘her person alone was as valuable as a kingdom.’2 Tall even at fifteen and stately, she had chosen her own gown and asked that she be allowed to wear white, for she knew it would set off her pale skin and auburn hair – which she planned to wear loose down her back. Her request had initially been refused, for white was the official colour of mourning of the French royal family, but she had insisted – and she dazzled the crowds in white and gold. She was, as one said, ‘dressed in clothing as white as lilies, made so gloriously and richly, it would be impossible to describe’.3 Her sweeping gown was heavy with embellished embroidery and she wore a huge jewelled pendant around her neck. She stood perfectly erect and on her head was a superb crown of gold, diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds and pearls. Two young girls bore her train of velvet and silk, which was twelve yards long and decorated with gems. Mary had received more jewels than she thought possible, including a giant diamond from her father-in-law, called ‘the great H’, big like the king.
Mary was a vision of beauty, of regal dignity and she was the symbol of a new and powerful alliance between Scotland and France. The aim was to capture England – a country riven with division and insecurities, ruled by a mere woman.
As the royal party moved towards the church for the nuptial Mass, the heralds threw gold and silver coins into the crowds. There was a terrible crush and some fainted – others shouting up to the heralds not to throw any more because of the panic.
Mary was married to the dauphin with a ring taken from the king’s finger. She was now the queen-dauphine – and her husband the king-dauphin. As the tribute poets declared at the wedding, Mary’s marriage would see England subjugated and France in power, the beginning of a brilliant dynastic line that would rule Europe. ‘So shall one house the world’s vast empire share,’ vaunted one. ‘Through you, France and England will change the ancient war into a lengthy peace that will be handed down from father to son.’4 Mary acknowledged her husband as the King of Scotland.
Mary was a queen, but now, as the poets made clear, she was the conduit for male power; ‘through her’ peace transmitted from father to son. Mary was the pledge of alliance, her womb the source of the future, the consort and mother of the future king.
At the banquet and ball following the wedding, Mary danced with her father-in-law, admired by all the guests at the archbishop’s palace. At about five, the party set off in procession to the Palais du Louvre for a second banquet, this time a grand state affair, cheered by the waiting crowds. The princes rode horses decked in gold and silver, the princesses sat in litters festooned with gold. Mary sat beside Catherine de’ Medici, her new mother-in-law, only thirty-nine and not her greatest admirer. Her new husband followed her, accompanied by the Duke of Lorraine and various attendants, all on beautiful horses covered in crimson velvet and gold. The crowds were so great that the party moved slowly.
The palace had been so beautifully and elaborately decorated that a guest described it as more beautiful than the ‘Elysian Fields’. After the meal, there was a panoply of glittering entertainments, including twelve pretend horses, ‘conducted and led artificially’, ridden by Francis’ brothers and other small royals – and leading coaches full of musicians. Then came the pièce de résistance, an incredible mise en scène comprising six great mechanical ships with silver masts and gauze sails, blown by the wind from hidden bellows, sailing around the blue-painted floor of the hall. They appeared magnificently real, tossed by ‘such force and abruptness and the top sails were so well-stretched that one would have said they were conducted by the winds artificially’. The king captained one, the dauphin another, and the rest were sailed by senior male royals. A narrator told the audience that the king in his boat was Jason, leading the Argonauts in their search for the Golden Fleece. When the king had his boat sail to Mary and she was lifted in and joined him sailing around the room, the meaning was clear – through her he would win an empire. It was almost as if the king himself had married this young girl, rather than his son the dauphin.
In all the glitter and the wondrous gold, the song and the lights – ‘those who were in the hall could not say whether the flambeaux and lanterns, or the jewelled rings, precious stones, gold and silver were brightest’ – the French saw their great triumph.5 The party continued over the next few days, with further feasts and even more marriages.
The French king had gained the Golden Fleece. And the Scots had assented to it all, their future queen regnant turned into a consort, bound by fabulous cuffs of gold. So great had been the desire of the Scots to see England defeated that they had given up everything.
Nine days before the marriage, at Fontainebleau, Mary had publicly signed an official document that gained the happy approval of her Parliament in Edinburgh. She vowed to keep ‘the freedoms, liberties and privileges of this realm and laws of the same, and in the same manner as has been observed in all kings’ times of Scotland before’.6 While she was out of the country, it would be governed by Mary of Guise as regent and the king and dauphin undertook to protect the realm.
The dauphin, it was agreed, would be named King of Scotland, and when he became King of France, he would govern both kingdoms. Due to the Salic law, the ancient Frankish law written by King Clovis that formed the basis of the legal system and barred female monarchs, Mary could only be Queen Consort of France – she could not reign over it as a joint monarch. It was agreed that Mary and Francis’ eldest son would inherit the joint kingdoms of France and Scotland. If the royal couple produced only daughters, the eldest would be Queen of Scotland, but France would pass to the nearest male relative. For the Scots, they felt they had gained an excellent bargain. As they saw it, matters would continue as they were, with various regents governing, and the French king would send troops whenever the English threatened to attack. It was, they believed, the best they could possibly achieve with such a useless thing as a female monarch.
But, despite his fine words, Henry was determined to make Scotland a province of France and one day do the same to England, through Mary’s claim to the English throne. The dauphin would be King of France, Scotland and England because he was the husband of Mary. Eleven days before the marriage, the king had given Mary three secret documents to sign. They were utterly shocking. In the first, she agreed that should she die without heirs, the King of France would inherit Scotland – and every right and title she had held as queen. The ostensible reason for this was due to the ‘singular and perfect affection that the kings of France had always had as to the protection and maintenance of the kingdom of Scotland against the English’.7 If this wasn’t enough, she also agreed that if she died without heirs, the King of France should gain all the revenues of Scotland up to the value of one million pieces of gold to reimburse him for his efforts in defending Scotland and funding Mary’s education. This too was outrageous for he had done very little to defend Scotland, and educating Mary had hardly cost very much, let alone a part of a million pieces of gold. Mary and Francis then signed the third document in which she assented that she understood the undertakings she had made and everything that she had promised was valid and effective in law and would not be affected by any assurances she had given or might give in the future. She could not overturn the agreements or later change her mind.
In signing the documents, Mary had given up everything. She may have done so because she had little choice – pressured as she was by the king, her Guise relations and perhaps her fiancé. And, like most fifteen-year-olds, she naturally thought she was not going to die any time soon and certainly not without having given birth to a child. She trusted her Guise uncles and thought that what they advised was in her best interests, though in fact they cared only for ensuring their ascendancy in the French court. And, as they saw it, if Scotland became subservient to France, they could finally control it, taking revenge on those uppity lords who had caused Mary of Guise, Mary’s mother, so many problems.
The young Queen of Scots had no choice but to sign. The king wanted to seize England and Scotland, and Mary was his tool.
At base, under all of it, the dazzle of the wedding, the words of the marriage contract, was a fundamental belief that women could not and should not rule. Empress Matilda in the twelfth century was widely seen as a disaster, whose attempt to gain the English throne had plunged the country into civil war. Although Mary I was on the English throne, she was not seen as a role model. Rather, to the King of France, she was a weak female monarch who could be swept away by the force of his son’s new position: King of Scotland, one day to be King of France. As the French (and most of Europe) saw it, Scotland should feel fortunate to be absorbed into the great nation of France – to be ‘fed on the breast of the great King of France’, in the words of one poet.8
The Scots had sent over an envoy of lords to attend the wedding and watch the pageant in dazzled excitement. Four died on the way home (some said they were poisoned but it was more likely a plague that had taken hold at the ports). Those who managed to stagger back gave an enthusiastic report. The Scots Parliament, ignorant of the secret documents, even considered offering Francis the right to retain the throne of Scotland if Mary died, but they were energetically resisted by the Protestant sect and by the Hamiltons, the noble family who were next in line to the throne after Mary. And once the excitement had died down about creating an alliance that should surely terrify England, many Scots began to question the fact that they had an absentee queen. At fifteen, she was old enough to begin the work of ruling her own people, yet her mother Mary of Guise was still doing all as regent, and their monarch was the consort-in-waiting of France.
Mary knew little of Scotland and barely remembered it. She saw herself as the future Queen of France and the future Queen of England, Wales and Ireland, the glorious warrior of the Catholic religion and unity. Ireland had been a lordship, ruled by the Kildare family, effectively independent, but Henry VIII had re-invaded the country, largely because he feared the Kildares. There was a series of bloody rebellions and fights against oppression – including the Desmond uprising in 1569, when Lord Desmond resisted the imposition of an English governor – and one rebellion was put down with a terrible forced famine. Europe saw Ireland as England’s possession, part of its burgeoning empire. Wales, too, had been repeatedly conquered – and largely pulled in by threats to the crown. In 1536, Henry VIII passed The Act of Union, in which the law of England was to be the law of Wales with twenty-six Members of Parliament from Wales to represent the country. When Mary said England, she meant Ireland and Wales too.
To King Henry and to Mary, England was the prize. Even though it was cold, isolated from the rest of Europe, and it had committed the anathema of breaking from Rome, it was a desirable acquisition. Its Queen, although hardly healthy, had brought back Catholicism; a true Counter-Reformation monarch. When she died, surely, no one would want the heretic Elizabeth on the throne. Henry VII and Henry VIII had been the ultimate propagandists, proclaiming the glory and power of the Tudors across Europe, the son throwing gold dust in everybody’s eyes with his extravagant displays at the Anglo-French summit of the Field of the Cloth of Gold. England’s agricultural land was excellent, its merchants energetic and its navy efficient, a greater player in the world order than Scotland seemed ever likely to be.
And Mary I – daughter of Henry VIII and now Queen of England – was reportedly very sick. In March, the whole court had assembled at Hampton Court for the birth of her child with Philip of Spain. The queen was swollen, ill and her menses had stopped. The court had gathered, but no child arrived, leaving the queen broken and despairing.
For the new queen-dauphine, it was worth throwing everything at the chance to be the heir. She had made her husband King of Scotland. Now, if she became Queen of England, he would gain that title too. The Tudor dynasty would be crushed.