Mary had ceased to be a child when she had married. She had discovered that there was more to life than wearing fine clothes, dancing, riding, writing verses and listening to compliments, and that masques and pageants were often cover for plots and murderous intentions. Life was only pleasant on the surface, and the surface was as thin as the sheets of ice which had been declared dangerous to skaters last winter at Rambouillet.
She was sixteen. It was not very old but she had to learn quickly. She had to be able to see behind the masks on peoples faces; she had to understand what was behind their words.
It was terrifying when François returned from the forest with his brother Charles. François was white and exhausted. She saw them ride into the courtyard; François slipped from his horse; she ran to him and said: “You’re tired, dearest.”
He had smiled wanly. “No,” he said, “I am not tired. It was a good days sport.” His voice was hoarse. The doctors said there was some affliction of the throat.
“Come and rest now,” said Mary.
“Rest!” cried François, aware of Charles’s complacent smile. “I have no need of rest.”
Charles who had leaped from his horse, threw the reins to a groom and cried out: “Come, François, let us go and shoot at the butts. Mary, come and watch.”
Mary, impulsive as she was, hot-tempered and quick to anger, was even quicker to feel sympathy, particularly where those she loved were concerned. She had the endearing gift: of putting herself in the place of anyone who was uncomfortable or who suffered in any way, and she had seen the look of sheer exhaustion on her husband’s face as he said: “Come on then. I’m ready.”
She would not let him tire himself out. She took his arm and said pleadingly: “Oh, François, I did want to read my verses to you. I have scarcely seen you all day.”
With what tenderness he smiled into her eyes! Perhaps he knew that her desire was not to read her verses aloud but to see those tired limbs of his enjoy the rest they needed, and that his young brother should not have the pleasure of beating him at the butts.
Charles scowled. Mary saw that familiar clenching and unclenching of the hands.
She slipped her arm through that of Francois’s. “Come along. I insist. You must hear my verses.”
They left Charles to scowl after them as he shouted to his attendants: “Come … to the butts. I am not in the least tired. I can spend ten hours in the saddle and feel as fresh as when I started.”
Mary led François into the palace and made him lie down while she read to him. He was happy to be with her; he had ridden with Charles and shown that he could do these things; now he was free to do as he wished, to rest his exhausted body while Mary sat beside him, her hand in his, his subtle protectress who never showed the rest of the world how she stood between him and everything that hurt him.
After a while he slept and Mary drew the coverlet over him and left him.
She met Charles coming from the butts. He was with several of his attendants, but when he saw Mary he signed to them to go on. His eyes were wild as he looked at Mary; his lips curled unpleasantly. “Poor old François,” he said. “He was worn out.”
“You rode too far.”
“Not for me. I have something to say to you, Mary. It is very secret. Come to the window seat here. Then we shall not be overheard. Speak low, Mary. I have heard that François is very sick.”
“François is well,” said Mary quickly. “He has grown too fast in the last months and that tires him.”
“They are saying that he will never live to reach the throne.”
“They talk too much.”
“Mary… Mary… if he does not… when my father dies, I shall be King of France.”
“Your father will not die, and François will live.”
“If my father dies and François dies, you can still be Queen of France. I will marry you.”
He had taken her hands and was covering them with quick kisses.
Mary drew back in alarm. Here was another of those shocks which were coming to her too frequently. Charles had been a young boy not quite nine years old a few moments ago; now he was behaving like a man … a lover.
“I will love you as François never can,” said Charles. “He is too sick. Mary, when he dies, I will marry you … and he will die soon. I know he will.”
Mary snatched her hands away.
“You do not know what you are saying,” she cried, rising. Then, seeing the red blood tinge his face and begin to show in the whites of his eyes, she said soothingly: “I am glad you love me, Charles. But I am Francois’s wife and I hope I shall always be. Stay as you are… my little brother. That contents me.”
“It does not content me,” mumbled Charles.
The only way in which she could treat such an outburst was not to look upon it seriously. She smiled and left him, but her heart was beating furiously.
THE CARDINAL came to see her and asked to speak with her alone.
“My dearest niece,” he said, “you are looking pale. Perhaps there is a reason?”
“I was not very well yesterday, Uncle.”
The Cardinal could not hide his frown. “I had hoped there might be another reason.”
“What reason?” asked Mary.
“It is time a child was conceived.”
She blushed and the Cardinal said anxiously: “My child, I trust you do your duty.”
“Oh… yes.”
“It is imperative that you have a child. François knows that, does he not? You know it?”
“We both know it.”
“I wish the Dauphin had the manhood of some others. My poor sweet Mary, would to God …”
She waited, but he sighed deeply.
He went on after a pause: “One day you will understand how much I love you. There must be a child, Mary. There must. If François died and there was no child, what would be your position here in France, do you think?”
“I do not know.”
“Dearest, try to remember your duty as I have taught it. This is a matter which concerns not only yourself but our entire house. The family looks to you. Oh, my Mary, I know that that which should be a pleasure to you is a painful duty. I read your mind and you can hide nothing from me. I see it through your eyes… the shameful fumblings… the inadequate lover. Oh, that you might enjoy one worthy of you! Oh that you might be now, in this glory of your youth, the woman I see behind those gentle eyes. Ah, what pleasure, what transcendant joy for the one who would be fortunate enough to be your lover! Mary, there must be a child. Somehow, there must be a child.”
She trembled. She was frightened by the meaning she read in his words, by the realization that the world was so different from what it had at first seemed to be.
HENRI DE MONTMORENCY danced with her in the stately pavanne.
He complained: “I have little chance of speaking to you.”
She thought how handsome he was, how elegant. She understood now what his burning glances meant. She feared she had been very ignorant before. Life was not easy and simple and Henri de Montmorency did not cease to desire her because she was the wife of the Dauphin.
“I must tell you this,” he said. “I love you still.”
He was bold. He came from a bold family.
“Take care, Monsieur de Montmorency,” she said. “There are many of your enemies who watch you.”
“Dearest lady, it is you who should take care, for you have more enemies than I could ever have.”
“Enemies? I?”
“At the Court of France many are in love with you. I mean you yourself. But some are deep in hate for the Dauphine of France.”
“I do not know of these.”
“The Queen of England hates you. She will never forgive you. I have had news from England.”
“What have I done to her?”
“What they have made you do. You have questioned her right. You have established your belief in her bastardy and you have called yourself Queen of England. Others did
this, I know, but it is you whom she will blame for it.”
Mary tossed her head. “She is far away and cannot reach me here. Ah, Monsieur de Montmorency, what do I care for the woman who calls herself the Queen of England? Talk of other things, I beg of you.”
“Your wish is a command. I will say that you grow more beautiful every day and that when I see you I am overwhelmed with love for you.”
“I did not mean that you should change the subject to speak to me thus,” said Mary, but she spoke in such a way as to imply that she did not forbid it. What harm was there in listening to such pleasant compliments from such an elegant young man!
DURING THE WEEKS which followed, Mary refused to think of the unpleasant. It was exciting to be the Dauphine and enjoy greater power than ever before. She had sent Madame de Paroy from her household, and Catherine had made no attempt to send the woman back to her. Catherine paid greater respect to Mary now, for she was conscious of rank; but Mary did not like her any better.
Now Mary had her own little court—her friends among that little circle in which she and François were as Queen and King. She and François rarely left each other, for he depended on her more than ever. The Cardinal and the Duke of Guise were often in their company; her uncles asked Mary to arrange that this was so, for as they said, François was in truth their nephew now. François admired the Duke but he could not overcome his fear of the Cardinal.
The young pair hunted together, and at such times Mary was always watchful that her husband did not tire himself; and when the Dauphin was not with her she was conscious of a relaxation of responsibility, which brought with it some relief. She loved François but she was very happy without him; then she would listen attentively to the compliments which were poured into her ears; and would dance and laugh more gaily than anyone. And, she was more attractive than ever. The Cardinal, watching her, knew that one day some gallant adventurer would seek to discover the true Mary; then he might find the passionate woman who lived within the Queen.
What could that mean for Mary? Lifelong happiness? That was hardly likely, she being a queen. Lifelong tragedy perhaps, for the, as yet, undiscovered Mary was a woman who would count the world well lost for love.
The Cardinal delighted to watch his puppet; he felt he had made of her a fascinating work of art. But the game of politics must be played with care, and the Cardinal’s chief interest was the power which would come to him through the advancement of his house.
The Guises were anxiously watching events. They had succeeded in marrying Mary to the Dauphin, but now the King and Diane were showing their displeasure with the Guise arrogance which had by no means diminished since the royal marriage.
The King wished to make peace with Spain. The Duke of Guise was against peace. There were long, angry discussions between the two, during which the King had to remind François de Guise that the marriage of his niece to the Dauphin did not mean that the Duke was ruler of France.
Henri was angry. Diane had been right when she had pointed out that the Guises were becoming intolerable. It was time the Constable de Montmorency, who had helped to keep the balance of power, was back in France. A peace treaty would mean the return of prisoners and among them Montmorency; thus the power of the Guises could be curtailed. The Duke, so great in war, was less useful in peace. Henri was tired of war, tired of the arrogance of the Guises. He therefore consented to make the Treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis with Philip of Spain.
The Duke ranted: “By this treaty, by a single stroke of the pen, all the Italian conquests of thirty years are surrendered, except the little marquisate of Saluzzo. Sire, shall we throw away Bress, Bugey, Savoy… Piedmont… all these and others? Shall we restore Valenza to Spain, Corsica to Genoa, Monteferrato to—”
“You need not proceed,” said the King coldly. “We need peace. We must have peace. You would have us go on until we exhaust ourselves in war. It is not the good of France which concerns you, Monsieur, but the glory of Guise and Lorraine.”
“Guise and Lorraine are France, Sire,” declared the bold Duke. “And Frances shame is their shame.”
The King turned abruptly away. It was time that reliable old ally and enemy of the Guises the Constable de Montmorency was back at Court.
There were other good things to come to France through this treaty. When it was signed, Philip of Spain and Henri of France would stand together against the heretic world. They could make plans for the alliance of their two countries; and such plans would contain, as they invariably did, contracts for royal marriages.
THERE CAME that never-to-be-forgotten day in June. There was no one, in that vast crowd which had gathered in the Rue St. Antoine near Les Tournelles where the arena had been set up for the tournament, who would ever forget it. It was a day which, by a mere chance, changed the lives of many people and the fate of a country.
The pale-faced Princess Elisabeth was there—a sixteen-year-old bride who had not yet seen the husband she was shortly to join, and whom she had married by proxy a few days earlier. The great Philip of Spain, she had been told, did not come for his brides; he sent for them. So the Duke of Alva had stood proxy for Philip, and the ceremony which had made her Philip’s wife had taken place. She was grateful for the haughty pride of Spanish kings which allowed her this small grace.
It was a frightened bride who watched the great events of that summer’s day.
Princess Marguerite, the King’s sister, was present. She was to marry the Duke of Savoy—which marriage had also been arranged with the signing of the treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis. The Duke of Savoy was present on this fateful day with his gentlemen brilliant in their red satin doublets, crimson shoes and cloaks of gold-embroidered black velvet, for this tournament was to be held in his honor.
All the nobility of France had come to pay respect to the future husband of the Princess Marguerite and the Spanish envoys of Elisabeth’s husband.
The Dauphin and the Dauphine came to the arena together in a carriage which bore the English coat of arms, and as they rode through the crowds, the heralds cried: “Make place! Make place for the Queen of England!”
The Constable de Montmorency was back in France, and Henri, his son, had married Mademoiselle de Bouillon, the granddaughter of Diane de Poitiers.
Did Mary care? She was a little piqued. He had sworn he would be bold; he had sworn that he would never marry, since he could not marry Mary.
Mary laughed. It was all a game of make-believe. She had been foolish to take anyone seriously.
Queen Catherine took her place in the royal gallery at the arena. Her face was not quite as expressionless as usual, for during the preceding night she had had uneasy dreams, and although the sun was shining in the Rue St. Antoine and the crowd was loyal, she was conscious of a deep depression.
The jousting began and the noble Princes excelled themselves. Mary was proud to watch the skill of her uncle the Duke of Guise and to hear the people’s warm acclamation of their hero.
The Duke of Alva, stern representative of his master, sat beside Elisabeth and applauded. The Count of Nassau, William of Orange, who had accompanied Alva, took part in the jousting.
There came that moment when the King himself rode out—a brilliant figure in his armor, his spurs jeweled, his magnificent white horse rearing—to meet his opponent. The people roared their loyal greeting to their King.
How magnificently Henri acquitted himself that day! His horse—a gift from the bridegroom-to-be, the Duke of Savoy—carried him to victory.
The King had acquitted himself with honor. The people had roared their approval. But he would go in once more. He would break one more lance.
The Dukes of Ferrara and Nemours were trying to dissuade him but he felt like a young man again. He had turned to the box in which sat Diane. Diane lifted her hand. The Queen half rose in her seat. But the King had turned away. He had signed to the Seigneur de l’Orges, a young captain of the Scottish Guards. The Captain hesitated, and then the King was calling for a new l
ance.
There was wild cheering as the King rode out a second time and began to tilt with the young Captain.
It was all over in less than a minute. The Captain had touched the King on the gorget; the Captains lance was splintered and the King was slipping from his horse, his face covered with blood.
There was a hushed silence that seemed to last a long time; and then people were running to where the King lay swooning on the grass.
THE KING WAS DYING. He had spoken little since he had fallen in the joust. He had merely insisted that the Captain was not to be blamed in any way because a splinter from his lance had brought about the accident. He had obeyed the King and had tilted when he had no wish to do so; he had carried himself like a brave knight and valiant man-at-arms. The King would have all remember that.
In the nurseries there was unusual quiet, broken only by sudden outbreaks of weeping.
Little Hercule cried: “When will my Papa be well? I want my Papa.”
The others comforted him, but they could not comfort themselves. Margot, whose grief, like all her emotions, was violent, shut herself into her apartment and made herself ill with weeping.
Mary and Elisabeth, François and Charles sat together, but they dared not speak for fear of breaking down. Mary noticed an odd speculative look in Charles’s eyes as he watched his brother. A King was dying, and when one King died another immediately took his place. The pale sickly boy would soon be King of France, but for how long?
Edouard Alexandre—Henri—was with his mother. She needed all the comfort he could give her. As she embraced him she told herself that he would take the place in her heart of the dying man. She was sure that the King was dying, because she knew such things.
And at last came the summons to his bedside. He was past speech and they were all thankful that he was past his agonies; he lay still and could not recognize any of them. They waited there, standing about his bedside until he ceased to breathe.
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