The King of Navarre walked with the Dauphin, and behind them came the two Princes—Charles, still glowering and sullen, and Edouard Alexandre full of gaiety because he had never worn such jewels as he wore that day.

At the door of the cathedral the procession halted and Mary was brought to stand beside the Dauphin.

Henri Deux took a ring from his finger and gave it to the Cardinal of Bourbon who was waiting to receive it, and there, under the blue sky, so that the people of Paris might witness the marriage ceremony, Mary Queen of Scots was married to François, Dauphin of France.

She smiled at her bridegroom reassuringly, not forgetting even at that moment that he might be in need of comfort. She knew that the crowds and the shouting would make his head ache. She knew that his jeweled garments would weigh him down and make him very tired.

He held her hand tightly and looked at her continually as though to reassure himself that the beautiful vision, arrayed in such glorious apparel, was after all his beloved Mary.

When the ceremony was over they returned to the Archbishop’s palace and sat down to the banquet which had been prepared for them in the grand hall. Mary ate ravenously, for she was very hungry; she urged François to eat, and he did so, saying that although there were so many people about them and the glitter of jewels was almost blinding, and two gentlemen stood behind Mary all the time they ate, holding the crown royal over her head, they were together; they loved each other and everything was the same except that they were married.

Afterward there was dancing. Mary delighted to dance and was enchanted when the King chose her as his partner. Her hand rested in his as they turned slowly in the stately pavanne.

“So you are happy?” asked the King.

“Yes, dearest Papa.”

“Then I am happy too. No one in Paris who saw you this day will ever forget you.”

“I shall never forget this day.”

“You and François should be happy. You do not yet know how fortunate you are.”

Mary had caught sight of François who was dancing with his mother. He looked very uneasy. She wished that she could have gone to him, to tell him not to be nervous. The King followed her gaze.

“You will always take care of him, will you not, Mary?” he said very seriously.

“Always, Papa.”

“He will need your care, my dear, and I know I can trust you to give it to him. The saints bless you and keep you.”

“I am happy to be the Dauphine, Papa, but I hope I shall never be Queen of France, for I could not be that while you live—so I would wish never to be.”

“My dear child,” he said, “I love you very much.”

By four o’clock in the afternoon the ball at the episcopal palace was over, but the celebrations were to continue. The whole company crossed the Seine to the Palais de Justice. Mary was carried in a litter of gold and silver, and the people shouted to her as she passed. “Long live the Queen-Dauphine!” they cried. And to each other: “But she is beautiful. What a contrast to the Italian woman!” Catherine did not seem to care what they said of her. She accepted humiliations from the Parisians as she did from her husband, with a resigned and almost patient smile.

How the people cheered the King when he rode by on his magnificently caparisoned warhorse! But the loudest cheers of all, some noticed, were for the man dressed in frosted cloth of gold, ablaze with gems, the man of action whom no amount of fine clothes or jewels could disguise. They knew him at once; his tall figure attracted immediate attention as did the scar on his cheek. “Vive le Balafré! Long life to the great Duke of Guise!” shouted the crowds. He knew how to win the hearts of the people. They did not forget that, during the celebrations when the mob had struggled to see the youthful pair but were prevented from doing so by the fine folk on the dais, he had ordered those fine folk to stand aside that the people’s view might not be obstructed. “God bless the Duke! God bless the hero of Metz and the saviour of Calais!”

And so the procession of litters, coaches and prancing horses came to the great hall of the Palais de Justice where a grand supper was waiting, to be followed by such a ball, such masques and mummeries, games and pastimes as were rarely seen even at the Court of France. With relish Mary ate of the dishes which were set before her. This was the happiest day of her life, she told François. He smiled and said that he was happy to be her husband but he would be happier still when they could be alone together.

He laughed with Mary at the children who, led by young Henri de Guise, rode in on hobby horses; each horse—and there were twenty-five of them—was pulled across the hall by a lackey, but the horses were so beautifully decorated with trappings of cloth of gold and silver that they looked more beautiful than real horses. The Princes, looking very charming in their suits of cloth of gold, came to a halt before the bridal pair and sang in praise of marriage and this royal marriage in particular.

Only the Scottish guests were ill at ease. It was clear that they thought the laughter, the dancing, the lavish display of jewels, the fulsome compliments and the soft looks exchanged between the men and women a strange mode of behavior. They were unable to join in the gaiety and stood apart about Lord James, as though to be ready to protect themselves if the need arose, watching the strange antics of the French through sullen and suspicious eyes.

The peak of the evening was reached with the appearance of the galleons which glided over the floor of the ballroom, the silver gauze sails filled by an artificial breeze; and as the floor cloth had been painted to represent waves, the effect had a certain realism. Lackeys led the ships to the table at which the royal ladies sat, and in the first of these ships the King was disclosed seated on the deck in a chair of state beside which was an empty chair. The King reached for Mary’s hand and helped her onto the deck that she might sit beside him. In the next ship was the Dauphin who had been warned he must select his mother to sit beside him; the Prince of Condé, in the next, chose the Duchess of Guise; the Duke of Lorraine followed and chose the Princess Claude; the King of Navarre chose his own wife; and the ships went gracefully down the ballroom over the painted floor cloth to the delight of all who saw them, and the immense pride of the Duke of Guise who had organized the pageantry.

Later Mary and François sat side by side listening to the poems of Ronsard and du Bellay; and all those poems—some set to music—were in praise of the King of France and the newly married pair and of the joy this nion of the two countries would bring to them.

“Mary,” whispered François wearily, “will it never end?”

She pressed his hand and looked down into his pale face. Poor little ridegroom! He was so tired. He was longing for it to be over, but the bride as wishing it could last for the rest of her life.


THEY LAY TOGETHER in the marriage bed divested of their glittering wedding garments.

François was holding her hand tightly. “I should be so afraid, Mary, if it were anyone but you.”

“So should I,” said Mary, “if it were anyone but you.”

The Dauphin laughed happily. Mary knew just how to set him at ease. If he was nervous, so was she. How lucky he was to have her for his wife!

“I shall grow stronger, Mary,” he said. “I’ll be like the Duke, your uncle. I will have all Paris shouting for me, and a scar on my cheek. I’ll be like my father, quiet and strong. Oh, Mary, how lucky you are! You don’t have to be like anybody but yourself.”

“Nor do you, François,” she said.

“Mary, I love you so.”

“I love you too, François.”

“Whatever we have to do … it will be all right, won’t it?”

“Yes, François. But don’t worry. Go to sleep now.”

She could see that he was almost asleep. His lids were pressing down over his eyes. He nestled closer to her and she held him in her arms protectively.

“I am so glad, Mary,” he murmured, “so glad to be married to you.”

Then he fell asleep.

FOUR

THE KING HAD DECREED THAT THE HONEYMOON SHOULD be spent in the lovely old château, built by his father François Premier, at Villers-Cotterets. So to this château went François and Mary, accompanied by only a few of their attendants, that they might enjoy each other’s company in quiet seclusion.

These were the happiest weeks of Francois’s life. The days seemed long and full of sunshine. He would lie on the grassy lawns near the fountains and listen to Mary’s reading to him; she read so beautifully. Sometimes she composed verses about their happiness; sometimes they rode in the forest together. It was quite different, riding almost alone with Mary, from riding with the company which always surrounded him when he was at Court. They would walk their horses under the trees or gallop side by side over the grassy stretches.

At Villers-Cotterets he learned not to be afraid of horses. Mary showed him what loving, gentle creatures they were. They were like herself, she said, eager to serve him.

What enchanting things Mary said! And how happy he was in her company! She made him forget that he was a sickly boy; she made him feel that he was a man.

To his relief their marriage had not been consummated. He was glad of that. He felt unhappy when he remembered that it would have to be one day; he was so uncertain and he sensed that Mary was also, and that she was glad that everything would be as it had been before their marriage, except that she was Dauphine now and they could be together night and day.