died.
NINE
A T COURT, WE DONNED WHITE .
Seated with the princesses in the royal crypt of the Basilica of St. Denis, I watched as the dauphin’s narrow coffin was lowered into the vault. Though the king’s eldest son had never been well, he’d not yet reached his twentieth year and François was devastated by his loss, haggard and pale as he knelt to kiss the engraved marble that would mark his eldest son’s tomb before he moved down the aisle, followed by Henri. I saw in my husband’s brief hooded glance in my direction that he was overwhelmed by his elevation as his father’s heir, and I felt faint at the thought that now, more than ever, the entire court would be watching me for signs of the son I must bear.
The princesses stood. I started to step aside for Madeleine, when she murmured, “No, you must go first. You’re the wife of our dauphin now.”
I looked at Marguerite; she gave a sad nod. I bowed my head and stepped forth.
As I moved down the aisle, I heard the courtiers start to whisper.
• • •
The forty days of mourning was prolonged. Deprived of entertainments with the king in seclusion, all my fears returned, so that at night I barely slept, haunted by visions of my exile. Henri did not come to my bed owing to the mourning for his brother; and we sat stiff as effigies together during our first official appearance following mourning, when King James V of Scotland came to visit France to cement the two countries’ alliance by seeking a bride.
No one could have foreseen that from among the multitude of ladies proffered to him, it would be shy Madeleine who captured James’s heart. It was, of course, the perfect match, and I wondered if even in his grief François had planned it, fully aware that bellicose Henry VIII of England would be enraged that his Scottish neighbor had a new French queen in his bed.
Only weeks after James’s arrival we stood in Madeleine’s chambers, ladies rushing about applying last-minute touches to her bridal costume. Arranging the flowing veil of her coronet, I turned her to the mirror. She peered. “Catherine, I look so pale. Maybe I should use some of that rouge you made for me?”
“Not today,” I said. “Brides are supposed to look pale.”
She clutched my hands. “Isn’t it strange how life can change? Look at us: Only yesterday we were in the schoolroom together. Now you’re dauphine and I’m to be queen of Scotland.” She glanced again at her reflection. “I do hope I’ll make a good wife to him. My doctors say I’m better.” As she spoke, she rubbed her sleeve. I’d seen the contusions on her arm, the result of a week of bleedings prescribed by her physicians. “But I hear winters in Scotland are harsh on the lungs,” she added, “and mine have always been weak.”
“James has plenty of castles to keep you warm.” I pried her fingers from her forearm. “Now, stop fretting. It’s your wedding day.”
The women shrieked as François strode in, ablaze in gold brocade. “Bad Papa,” chided Marguerite. “It’s bad luck for a man to see the bride before she enters the cathedral.”
“Bah! Bad luck for the husband, perhaps, but never for the father.” He went to Madeleine. “Your groom waits. Are you ready,
ma chère?”
As she hooked her arm in his, he gave me a worried glance. The death of his eldest son still showed in his face and I knew he was anxious. Scotlandwas infamous for its unforgiving climate and nobility; how would our sweet Madeleine fare so far from the comforts of France?
I said, “Her Highness was just telling us how happy she is. Surely, this is one of France’s most joyous occasions, Your Majesty.”
“Indeed,” he murmured, “as joyous as your own arrival,
ma petite.”
He turned a brilliant smile to Madeleine. “To Notre Dame!”
After weeks of festivities, we accompanied the newlyweds to Calais for their departure for Scotland. We then returned to Fontainebleau, where François collapsed without
NINE
A T COURT, WE DONNED WHITE .
Seated with the princesses in the royal crypt of the Basilica of St. Denis, I watched as the dauphin’s narrow coffin was lowered into the vault. Though the king’s eldest son had never been well, he’d not yet reached his twentieth year and François was devastated by his loss, haggard and pale as he knelt to kiss the engraved marble that would mark his eldest son’s tomb before he moved down the aisle, followed by Henri. I saw in my husband’s brief hooded glance in my direction that he was overwhelmed by his elevation as his father’s heir, and I felt faint at the thought that now, more than ever, the entire court would be watching me for signs of the son I must bear.
The princesses stood. I started to step aside for Madeleine, when she murmured, “No, you must go first. You’re the wife of our dauphin now.”
I looked at Marguerite; she gave a sad nod. I bowed my head and stepped forth.
As I moved down the aisle, I heard the courtiers start to whisper.
• • •
The forty days of mourning was prolonged. Deprived of entertainments with the king in seclusion, all my fears returned, so that at night I barely slept, haunted by visions of my exile. Henri did not come to my bed owing to the mourning for his brother; and we sat stiff as effigies together during our first official appearance following mourning, when King James V of Scotland came to visit France to cement the two countries’ alliance by seeking a bride.
No one could have foreseen that from among the multitude of ladies proffered to him, it would be shy Madeleine who captured James’s heart. It was, of course, the perfect match, and I wondered if even in his grief François had planned it, fully aware that bellicose Henry VIII of England would be enraged that his Scottish neighbor had a new French queen in his bed.
Only weeks after James’s arrival we stood in Madeleine’s chambers, ladies rushing about applying last-minute touches to her bridal costume. Arranging the flowing veil of her coronet, I turned her to the mirror. She peered. “Catherine, I look so pale. Maybe I should use some of that rouge you made for me?”
“Not today,” I said. “Brides are supposed to look pale.”
She clutched my hands. “Isn’t it strange how life can change? Look at us: Only yesterday we were in the schoolroom together. Now you’re dauphine and I’m to be queen of Scotland.” She glanced again at her reflection. “I do hope I’ll make a good wife to him. My doctors say I’m better.” As she spoke, she rubbed her sleeve. I’d seen the contusions on her arm, the result of a week of bleedings prescribed by her physicians. “But I hear winters in Scotland are harsh on the lungs,” she added, “and mine have always been weak.”
“James has plenty of castles to keep you warm.” I pried her fingers from her forearm. “Now, stop fretting. It’s your wedding day.”
The women shrieked as François strode in, ablaze in gold brocade. “Bad Papa,” chided Marguerite. “It’s bad luck for a man to see the bride before she enters the cathedral.”
“Bah! Bad luck for the husband, perhaps, but never for the father.” He went to Madeleine. “Your groom waits. Are you ready,
ma chère?”
As she hooked her arm in his, he gave me a worried glance. The death of his eldest son still showed in his face and I knew he was anxious. Scotlandwas infamous for its unforgiving climate and nobility; how would our sweet Madeleine fare so far from the comforts of France?
I said, “Her Highness was just telling us how happy she is. Surely, this is one of France’s most joyous occasions, Your Majesty.”
“Indeed,” he murmured, “as joyous as your own arrival,
ma petite.”
He turned a brilliant smile to Madeleine. “To Notre Dame!”
After weeks of festivities, we accompanied the newlyweds to Calais for their departure for Scotland. We then returned to Fontainebleau, where François collapsed without
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