The Memoirs of Mary Queen of Scots Read Free Page B

jeweled buckles. Everywhere he went he surrounded himself with an escort of handsome, sturdy young men and when he dined in public he made certain that there were beautiful women adorning his table.
    He tried to look like a king.
    But no amount of finery or outward show could make Francis kingly, and day by day his misery and fear deepened. He was only happy when away from the court, and his refuge was the hunt.
    When autumn came we went to stay at the beautiful new palace of Fontainebleau, where the hunting in the surrounding forest was at its best. Francis rode off happily into the woods early each morning and each evening his foresters brought back many handsome stags and does, all dead by his royal hand (or so they assured everyone), and laid them out on the grass under the light of the torches.
    There was a chill in the air, and intermittent rain, and by the fourth day of our stay at the palace I noticed that Francis, who was forever sneezing and having to wipe his nose no matter where we were or what season it was, was sniffing more than ever and blowing his nose noisily and complaining that his ear hurt. When I suggestedthat he stay indoors rather than ride out in the rain, he snapped at me irritably—and then began coughing as if he could not stop.
    On the following morning, despite the dark clouds and sharp wind, he went out to hunt as usual, and all his retinue with him, only to come back a few hours later, soggy in his velvets (Francis loved his finery!) and holding his hand to his ear. Dr. Bourgoing gave him a purgative and sent one of the grooms to the kitchens for a roasted onion to place in his ear to draw out the poisons.
    My mother-in-law’s astrologer Michel de Notredame also arrived, sent by the queen to examine Francis. He was a dark-haired, heavily jowled man of medium height, well advanced in age (though everyone looked very old to me then, young as I was), with a serious expression and a look of great intelligence, such as I had seen on few faces in my brief life.
    He bent over Francis, who had been ordered to bed by Dr. Bourgoing, and listened to his chest and looked into his ear.
    “The king has a worm in his ear,” he told the doctor. “It has bored its way in, deep into his head. It cannot be dislodged. The onion will not cure him. However, the king will recover—this time.”
    I was very relieved to hear the astrologer’s words, so relieved that I ignored the subtle warning in what he said, the implication that there might be another illness from which he would not recover.
    “Monsieur de Notredame,” I said as he was preparing to leave, “would you please read my palm?”
    He looked at me searchingly. “Are you certain you want me to?”
    I hesitated a moment, then nodded.
    “Very well then. I should like you to stretch out your hands, palms downward.”
    I did as he asked.
    “Very pretty. The long fingers very elegant. But the nails—”
    My nails were bitten down to the quick. My tirewomen soaked them in rosewater each night and rubbed scented oil into the raw edges, but they looked ragged and injured nonetheless. When Iattended banquets or masques, I wore gloves—tight, soft dogskin gloves—to hide my nails.
    “Please turn them over.”
    I had had my palms read before, it was a common enough pastime at court, but when Monsieur de Notredame inspected first my left palm, then my right it was with a degree of scrutiny and thoughtfulness I had never encountered. He took his time, tracing the significant lines with one finger, frowning occasionally and slowly shaking his head.
    “What day were you born, and at what hour?”
    I told him. He remained quiet for a time, then motioned me to sit on a bench near the fireplace.
    “More logs!” he called out to the groom who stood nearby. At once the boy ran out of the room and before long came running back in with an armload of wood, which he proceeded to add to the fire.
    “Little queen, I would like you to remove one of your