Queen tonight, as there is to be a musical concert given by Signore Marcellini and some other court musicians. Mary Fleming is not feeling well so she will not attend. She also missed our music class yesterday.
Something is wrong with Mary but I am not sure if it is simply a physical ailment. She is too quiet. The other Marys notice as well. I wish that King Henry would be here tonight for the musicale but he has followed Diane to Anet. There will be dancing after the concert, and the King is my favourite dance partner.
Later
And you might imagine who is not my favourite dance partner – Signore Marcellini. He jerks about like a marionette with tangled strings. Oh, my goodness, I try so hard to be polite and kind but it is hard. I also danced with Monsieur d’un Humanieres. He is quite agile for a man of his age. Ronsard is a favourite partner. Francis told me he nearly collapsed laughing when he saw me with Signore Marcellini.
May 9, 1554
Days are full of lessons. Latin with George Buchanan, who is mightily irritated with Mary Beaton for her sloppy translations. Master Buchanan rarely becomes upset, so her work must have been exceedingly poor. He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and muttered in Latin, which roughly translated meant, Cicero is turning in his grave. Signore Marcellini arrived for our music lessons with his hand bandaged. Mary Livingston asked him what had happened. He mumbled something about an unfortunate encounter with a book knife. But book knives are not that sharp. They are designed only to cut the paper of new books that come with their pages still fused. I detest being the first reader of a new book for just this reason. It takes so long to endlessly be cutting through the pages to read them.
May 12, 1554
Francis is ill again. I play endless games of chess with him. It rains. Mary Fleming grows more quiet each day. Mary Livingston cannot even come up with a funny ditty, and I struggle with my poem for Ronsard. We are all very tired of Fontainebleau. It is such a sad place in the rain. The blue slate from which it is built turns dark and forbidding. It is as if the entire château weeps in the rain. Our apartments have a stuffiness. Madame de Parois and the Italians chatter endlessly. They do indeed gossip. I hear snatches of it all the time.
Oh, I hear a commotion and a bark from their game room. I must run.
Later
Furious – absolutely furious. One of those friends of Madame de Parois kicked Thimble, who had trotted in and apparently began to nibble at one of the ladies’ shoes. When I entered, little Thimble’s mouth was bleeding! My demeanour must have been fearsome for a sudden silence fell on the room.
“Out! All of you out!” I wanted to call them names. But I would not indulge myself in such a display.
May 14, 1554
I am now sick in bed with a chest catarrh and feeling very feverish, my head throbbing, but I must write. After I had become so angry with Madame Parois’ friends I had ordered Minette to fetch my Scots dress – my tunic of roughest linen, skins and breacans and brats , my high-lace boots. I tore off my hoop, dress, and kirtle. Minette helped me. “Where are you going, Your Majesty?”
“Out. Alone. Tell no one.”
“Yes, Milady.” Her eyes slid toward the window where rain was now beating down quite hard.
I picked up Thimble and tucked him under my brat where he would stay dry. I pulled my hair from its high, plaited crown and let the single plait flow over my shoulder, slammed a tam on my head, and left.
High gusty winds made the driving rain slide across at a steep slant. I remember those many years ago when we sailed across the channel to France. The wind was against us one day so that the sailors were forced to take in sail and row across the channel. So, remembering those sailors, I furled my brat tight around me so it would not billow in the gusts and, tucking my head to my chest, I rammed diagonally across the wind.
My face was slick with rain by
Something is wrong with Mary but I am not sure if it is simply a physical ailment. She is too quiet. The other Marys notice as well. I wish that King Henry would be here tonight for the musicale but he has followed Diane to Anet. There will be dancing after the concert, and the King is my favourite dance partner.
Later
And you might imagine who is not my favourite dance partner – Signore Marcellini. He jerks about like a marionette with tangled strings. Oh, my goodness, I try so hard to be polite and kind but it is hard. I also danced with Monsieur d’un Humanieres. He is quite agile for a man of his age. Ronsard is a favourite partner. Francis told me he nearly collapsed laughing when he saw me with Signore Marcellini.
May 9, 1554
Days are full of lessons. Latin with George Buchanan, who is mightily irritated with Mary Beaton for her sloppy translations. Master Buchanan rarely becomes upset, so her work must have been exceedingly poor. He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and muttered in Latin, which roughly translated meant, Cicero is turning in his grave. Signore Marcellini arrived for our music lessons with his hand bandaged. Mary Livingston asked him what had happened. He mumbled something about an unfortunate encounter with a book knife. But book knives are not that sharp. They are designed only to cut the paper of new books that come with their pages still fused. I detest being the first reader of a new book for just this reason. It takes so long to endlessly be cutting through the pages to read them.
May 12, 1554
Francis is ill again. I play endless games of chess with him. It rains. Mary Fleming grows more quiet each day. Mary Livingston cannot even come up with a funny ditty, and I struggle with my poem for Ronsard. We are all very tired of Fontainebleau. It is such a sad place in the rain. The blue slate from which it is built turns dark and forbidding. It is as if the entire château weeps in the rain. Our apartments have a stuffiness. Madame de Parois and the Italians chatter endlessly. They do indeed gossip. I hear snatches of it all the time.
Oh, I hear a commotion and a bark from their game room. I must run.
Later
Furious – absolutely furious. One of those friends of Madame de Parois kicked Thimble, who had trotted in and apparently began to nibble at one of the ladies’ shoes. When I entered, little Thimble’s mouth was bleeding! My demeanour must have been fearsome for a sudden silence fell on the room.
“Out! All of you out!” I wanted to call them names. But I would not indulge myself in such a display.
May 14, 1554
I am now sick in bed with a chest catarrh and feeling very feverish, my head throbbing, but I must write. After I had become so angry with Madame Parois’ friends I had ordered Minette to fetch my Scots dress – my tunic of roughest linen, skins and breacans and brats , my high-lace boots. I tore off my hoop, dress, and kirtle. Minette helped me. “Where are you going, Your Majesty?”
“Out. Alone. Tell no one.”
“Yes, Milady.” Her eyes slid toward the window where rain was now beating down quite hard.
I picked up Thimble and tucked him under my brat where he would stay dry. I pulled my hair from its high, plaited crown and let the single plait flow over my shoulder, slammed a tam on my head, and left.
High gusty winds made the driving rain slide across at a steep slant. I remember those many years ago when we sailed across the channel to France. The wind was against us one day so that the sailors were forced to take in sail and row across the channel. So, remembering those sailors, I furled my brat tight around me so it would not billow in the gusts and, tucking my head to my chest, I rammed diagonally across the wind.
My face was slick with rain by
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