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the Infant Jesus. During the banquet that followed Mass in the royal chapel, the queen quietly withdrew. The next day she gave birth to her fourth child, a boy The king was delighted to have a second son and named him Louis. Almost as soon as he was born, Madame de Poitiers whisked the wee bairn away to the royal nursery, to be cared for under her watchful eye.
    By the king’s order, I shared my studies with Princesse Élisabeth, as well as a few children of the nobility. François, as dauphin, had to be tutored alone—a shame, I thought, for he was an intelligent lad and would have been a fine addition to my classes.
    Each week Lady Fleming helped me write a letter to my mother. After six months in France I spoke French almost as easily as I did Scots and wrote it well enough too. I dutifully described to my mother the interesting things I had learned and the people I had met. When the mail arrived from Scotland, I almost always received a letter from my mother. I looked forward to those letters and wept if there was none, but they also reminded me painfully that I had not seen her for months. I had settled into my new life, as I knew she wished me to, but my longing for her never left me. Though I was always the center of attention at royal events and was surrounded by people who seemed to care about me, I missed Maman deeply.
    I also missed the Four Maries, who were still being kept at the convent in Poissy. “When will I see them again?” I asked Lady Fleming repeatedly.
    â€œSoon, Marie, soon.” She always sighed.
    Lately my governess had seemed distracted. I thought her distraction and her deep sighs were because she yearned for her daughter, La Flamin, at least as much as I did.
    But as it turned out, I was wrong.

Chapter 7
Fontainebleau

    T HE ENTIRE F RENCH COURT was moving to Fontainebleau. For a week, servants swarmed through the apartments packing furniture, plates, and cups into crates, and clothing and linens into trunks. They had done it many times before.
    â€œKing Henri likes to move,” grumbled the woman charged with seeing to my belongings. “Once there, it is fine enough, but getting there is no pleasure.” She stood with her hands braced on her wide hips. “The journey itself cannot end too soon for these old bones. You will see that for yourself, Madame Marie.” She went back to her duties, muttering under her breath.
    Soon after sunrise on the Monday of Holy Week, a long procession of people and mule carts wound its way out of Saint-Germain. At the head of the procession rode the messengers, who would be the first to arrive at the village where we would stop well before dark. Next came the cooks, the bakers and pastry makers, and the boys who turned the roasting spits, followed by dozens of stewards in charge of setting up the banquet tables and serving the meal. The noblemen, their wives and children, and their household servants made up the rest of the procession that stretched farther than I could see.
    In this great river of people, Élisabeth and I rode together in a litter cushioned with velvet pillows. I now understood the old servant’s complaints. The pillows were not nearly thick enough to protect us from the jostling of the mules carrying the litter. By the time we stopped for the first night, the excitement had worn off and we were tired.
    Sinclair was traveling with the servants and did not try to hide her feelings about them when we retired to rooms prepared for us at the convent where we were to spend the night. “Those Frenchwomen look down their fine noses at me,” she complained, her eyes red rimmed—from weariness or weeping, I was not sure. “They call me 'the auld Scot’ and mock me when I speak our natural tongue. They jeer at me for not saying their French words the way they should be said, by their lights, and they point and laugh at me for the clumsy way I use a fork, the likes of which I had never seen