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French knight and officer in the Scottish lifeguard of the King, entered the lists at the latter’s command as the opponent of his royal master. Having broken his lance, he galloped to the attack once more with the stump of his weapon. The onslaught was so energetic that a splinter of Montgomery’s lance penetrated the King’s eye through the visor. The monarch fell from his horse in a faint. At first the wound was considered trifling, but the King never regained consciousness. Around his bed the family gathered, appalled and horrified. Valois’s sturdy frame fought valiantly for a few days, but on 10th July he gave up the ghost.
    Even when plunged into the deepest grief, the French never forgot the dictates of etiquette. As the royal family was leaving the palace, Catherine de’ Medici, Henry II’s wife, held back at the door. From the hour when she became a widow she had no longer any right to take precedence at court. This right now fell to a girl who had automatically become Queen of France as the last breath went out of the erstwhile King’s body. Mary Stuart, the spouse of France’s new King, a chit of sixteen, had to go before, and in this moment Mary rose to the highest peak life had reserved for her.

Chapter Three
Queen, Widow, and Still Queen (1560–1)
    (1560–1)
    N OTHING CONTRIBUTED SO GREATLY to render Mary Stuart’s fate tragic as that at the outset of her career earthly honours fell deceptively to her lot without her lifting a finger to attain them. Her rise to power was like a rocket for swiftness—six days after birth she was already Queen of Scotland; at six years of age she became the betrothed of one of the most powerful princes in Europe; at fifteen she was his wife; at sixteen, Queen of France. She reached the zenith of her public career before she had had time to develop her inner life. Things dropped into her lap as if out of a horn of plenty; never did she fight in her own behalf for a desired object, or reap any advantage through the exercise of personal endeavour. Not through trial and merit did this princess attain a goal; everything flowed towards her by inheritance, or grace, or gift. As in a dream, wherein happenings fly past in ephemeral and multicoloured precipitancy, she lived through the wedding ceremony and the coronation. Before her senses could begin to grasp the significance of this precocious springtime, the blossoms were already withered and dead, the season of flowering was over and Mary awoke disappointed, disillusioned, plundered of her hopes, fleeced as it were, bewildered to distraction. At an age when other maids are beginning to form wishes, are beginning to hope for and to hanker after they hardly know what, Mary experienced in profusion the possibilities of a triumphant progress without being granted time or leisure to grasp their spiritual significance. This premature coming to grips with destiny explains her subsequent restlessness and voracity. One who has so early been the outstanding figure in a country, indeed in the world, will never again be content with a less exalted position. It was in the stubborn fight to maintain herself at the centre of the stage that her real greatness was developed. Renunciation and forgetfulness are permissible to the weak; strong natures, on the other hand, are not in the habit of resigning themselves, but challenge even the mightiest destiny to a trial at arms.
    In truth this brief period of royalty in France passed for Mary like a dream—a poignant, uneasy and anxious dream. The ceremony at the cathedral at Rheims—where the archbishop crowned the sickly youth, and where the lovely girl-Queen, bedecked with the jewels appropriate to her position, shone forth from among the nobles like a slender white lily not yet in full bloom—was an isolated occasion of splendour. Except for this the chronicles have nothing to tell of festivals or merry-making. Fate left Mary Stuart no time to