Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles by Margaret George
Authors: Margaret George
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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enveloped by them and taught their ways with no interference.
From the very beginning, all of France had fallen in love with "the gentle dove rescued from the pursuit of ravenous vultures" as one poetic courtier described notre petite Reinette d'Ecosse.
The court, all the more romantic for its surface coating of weary cynicism, fastened with fervour onto little Marie Stuart, as they delighted to call her, that fugitive princess from a barbarous, misty land, destined someday to be their queen. It had been so long since they had had a hero or heroine to extol: Francois I had been too jaded and jaunty, Henri II was too mournful and plodding. Catherine de Medicis, "the Italian Woman," was to be feared, not feted. (Had her servant really poisoned the late Dauphin, clearing the way for shy Henri to become King? The servant had confessed, but only Catherine knew the truth of it.) Diane de Poitiers was beautiful in an otherworldly sort of way, remote, ethereal, like the goddess Diana she emulated. She struck awe in the beholder's eye, but not devotion. Besides, she had an earthly side: she was a bit too acquisitive of land and manors to be considered a goddess all the way through.
But Marie Stuart, with her pretty face, pleasing manners, and troubled heritage, appealed strongly to the imagination of the people.
No aspect of her education was neglected. She studied the classics, learning to read and write Latin. She spoke Italian and Spanish. She was taught music, and played the lute, harpsichord, and cithern, as well as having a sweet singing voice. She studied history with de Pasquier, and wrote poetry from an early age. She danced gracefully and especially loved to perform in masques and ballets. She laboured over her needlework and enjoyed designing her own patterns for embroidery.
At the same time, she loved the outdoors, and was skilled at riding, archery, hawking, the hunt. She liked nothing better than to sneak off and practise with her scaled-down bows and arrows with the youngest members of the Scottish Archers, who served as an honour guard to the King.
One day in particular, in early spring when she was just past seven, she had scrambled out past the ever-alert Lady Fleming and managed to get outside at Fontainebleau, where she knew the archers liked to practise in the woods. She had a particular favourite, Rob MacDonald, who was only eighteen and a little homesick himself, and always glad to see her. She had made friends with him, and yet she hoped the day would someday come when she would be able to shoot better than he, at least once in a while.
Sure enough, he was on the outskirts of the woods, practising with his fellows.
"Your Majesty!" he said when he saw her. "So you got away again!"
"Yes!" she said breathlessly. She did not know why she was compelled to do it, or why the other children never seemed to want to. She loved the Marys, and Francois, but there was a side to her they could not understand, and she felt she had to keep it secret. "And I have brought my bow." She proffered the beautifully tempered and seasoned instrument, with its quiver of arrows all inlaid with her royal crest.
"Good," he said. He nodded toward his companions. "We were just practising at this target. Would you like to start there?"
She nodded. She liked hearing him speak Scots. She did not want to forget it, but she had little opportunity to hear it and speak it for any length of time. She drew out an arrow and fitted it to her bowstring, pulled back as hard as she could, and let fly. The arrow hit at the very edge of the target.
"Achh!" said Rob, almost as disappointed as she was.
"I'll try again!" She pulled out a second arrow, and it did a little better, hitting closer to the centre.
For an hour they alternated shooting, Rob instructing her on the fine points of the sport.
"If you wish to be a good shot, this is the way." He was very patient.
Tired at the
From the very beginning, all of France had fallen in love with "the gentle dove rescued from the pursuit of ravenous vultures" as one poetic courtier described notre petite Reinette d'Ecosse.
The court, all the more romantic for its surface coating of weary cynicism, fastened with fervour onto little Marie Stuart, as they delighted to call her, that fugitive princess from a barbarous, misty land, destined someday to be their queen. It had been so long since they had had a hero or heroine to extol: Francois I had been too jaded and jaunty, Henri II was too mournful and plodding. Catherine de Medicis, "the Italian Woman," was to be feared, not feted. (Had her servant really poisoned the late Dauphin, clearing the way for shy Henri to become King? The servant had confessed, but only Catherine knew the truth of it.) Diane de Poitiers was beautiful in an otherworldly sort of way, remote, ethereal, like the goddess Diana she emulated. She struck awe in the beholder's eye, but not devotion. Besides, she had an earthly side: she was a bit too acquisitive of land and manors to be considered a goddess all the way through.
But Marie Stuart, with her pretty face, pleasing manners, and troubled heritage, appealed strongly to the imagination of the people.
No aspect of her education was neglected. She studied the classics, learning to read and write Latin. She spoke Italian and Spanish. She was taught music, and played the lute, harpsichord, and cithern, as well as having a sweet singing voice. She studied history with de Pasquier, and wrote poetry from an early age. She danced gracefully and especially loved to perform in masques and ballets. She laboured over her needlework and enjoyed designing her own patterns for embroidery.
At the same time, she loved the outdoors, and was skilled at riding, archery, hawking, the hunt. She liked nothing better than to sneak off and practise with her scaled-down bows and arrows with the youngest members of the Scottish Archers, who served as an honour guard to the King.
One day in particular, in early spring when she was just past seven, she had scrambled out past the ever-alert Lady Fleming and managed to get outside at Fontainebleau, where she knew the archers liked to practise in the woods. She had a particular favourite, Rob MacDonald, who was only eighteen and a little homesick himself, and always glad to see her. She had made friends with him, and yet she hoped the day would someday come when she would be able to shoot better than he, at least once in a while.
Sure enough, he was on the outskirts of the woods, practising with his fellows.
"Your Majesty!" he said when he saw her. "So you got away again!"
"Yes!" she said breathlessly. She did not know why she was compelled to do it, or why the other children never seemed to want to. She loved the Marys, and Francois, but there was a side to her they could not understand, and she felt she had to keep it secret. "And I have brought my bow." She proffered the beautifully tempered and seasoned instrument, with its quiver of arrows all inlaid with her royal crest.
"Good," he said. He nodded toward his companions. "We were just practising at this target. Would you like to start there?"
She nodded. She liked hearing him speak Scots. She did not want to forget it, but she had little opportunity to hear it and speak it for any length of time. She drew out an arrow and fitted it to her bowstring, pulled back as hard as she could, and let fly. The arrow hit at the very edge of the target.
"Achh!" said Rob, almost as disappointed as she was.
"I'll try again!" She pulled out a second arrow, and it did a little better, hitting closer to the centre.
For an hour they alternated shooting, Rob instructing her on the fine points of the sport.
"If you wish to be a good shot, this is the way." He was very patient.
Tired at the
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