by Jean Plaidy
The Cardinal embraced both children.
“It is a secret visit,” he said. “I could not resist it. I wished to see how my dear children were enjoying their honeymoon. And when I heard that my dearest Mary was unwell, I found the desire to make the journey irresistible.” The Cardinal looked at her anxiously. Her skin was of waxy pallor like the petal of the magnolia blossom; it was attractive, thought the Cardinal, but not a sign of robust health. As he had said to his brother, the Duke, when he had heard of Mary’s illness, it was a terrifying thought that the power of their house depended on the lives of two frail children.
He told his brother that he had had a secret conference with the Dauphin’s doctors and had forced them to admit that the likelihood of the boy’s reaching the age of twenty was very remote.
Mary’s illness and the reports from the doctors were the reasons for the Cardinals intrusion on their honeymoon.
He knew the Dauphin and he knew Mary. The Dauphin was a frightened boy; he was so weak and sickly that he would have no normal impulses. As for Mary, one day she would be a passionate woman. The Cardinal was fully aware of that. He thought it was the secret of that immense attraction which was felt by almost every man who came into contact with her. Her expression was gentle; hers was a tender beauty; yet her dormant sensuality was ready to be roused, and it was this readiness which made all men who set eyes on her, long—subconsciously perhaps—to be that one who should kindle the fire. Her reserve, upheld by her great dignity, was like a fine gauze covering the intensely passionate nature. If the gauze could be removed the true Mary would be exposed—eager, voluptuous, abandoned. Passion would sweep away her dignity. The woman in her would make her forget she was a queen. This connoisseur of human frailty, this man who had experienced every sensation, understood Mary completely.
It was his task to keep the gauze intact. Only he had lifted the corner to peep beneath, and then dropped it quickly. He was too old and wise to let his emotions stand in the way of his ambition. Mary must be handled with the greatest care. She must never know herself as a woman, if there was any risk that such knowledge might come between her and her duty to the house of Guise. He had fancied that Henri de Montmorency might, in due course, have stripped Mary of her queenly dignity, of her innocence and her ignorance, and found the woman beneath. That was why he had—as he so well knew how to do—made the Montmorency repulsive to her.
That had not been difficult. He had formed Mary’s mind; he had watched over her. His relationship with her had been his great delight. It gave him more satisfaction than any of those obviously erotic entertainments which he devised from time to time. Mary must remain his guileless niece. Yet it was necessary for her to taste the fruit of the tree of knowledge, for it was imperative to the house of Guise that the Dauphin and Mary should have an heir. Yet he himself, when he had been determined that she should not fall to the house of Montmorency, that great enemy of the house of Guise, had shown her how bitter that fruit could be. He had made her turn shuddering away; that was why the task which now lay before him was such a delicate one.
He listened in an avuncular manner to Mary’s account of the pleasures of the château. He heard about Francois’s prowess with his new horse. Then he patted Mary’s cheek and said that it grieved him to see her not as well as when they had last been together. He wished her to rest and insisted on her lying down.
“Not now you have come!” she protested.
“Because I have come! I will not have this hearty husband of yours tiring you.”
François could not help feeling rather pleased to be referred to as the vigorous one. Mary saw his quick smile which was replaced immediately by his look of concern for Mary.
Mary said: “We did ride rather far yesterday. It was a little too far… for me.”
“Then you shall rest now, and François shall take me to the stables and show me his horses.”
Mary agreed. She was pleased because on other occasions when her uncle had been present, François had sent out distress signals begging not to be left alone with the imposing Cardinal. It was pleasant to feel that François was less afraid since their marriage, and that he was beginning to be fond of Uncle Charles.
When Mary had left them, the Cardinal smiled at the boy. His smile was warm, and affectionately and successfully masked the contempt he felt for the stripling.
“You… you would wish to see the stables?” said the Dauphin timorously.
“Why, yes… yes,” said the Cardinal. “We will go alone.”
As he admired the horses he made himself so agreeable that François began to think he had been rather foolish to be afraid; but when they had left the stables and were walking on the grounds about the château, the Cardinal said: “I trust you are being a good husband to Mary.”
“I love her,” said the Dauphin. “I would die for her.”
“She will need you to do more than die for her.”
“I … I would do all that she wished.”
“Poor Mary, she is a little sad.”
“Oh, no. She is happy. She says so. She says that this is the happiest time she has ever known. She is happy because of our marriage.”
“She was happy thinking of marrying you. I am not sure that she is happy now.”
“I … I do not understand.”
The Cardinal smiled. “You have given Mary a fine title; you have made her Dauphine of France. But there is more to a marriage than that. What Mary needs is a lover. She needs a child.”
The Dauphin flushed scarlet and did not know where to look. He was near to tears. He knew that he had been right to fear the Cardinal who had brought discord into this Eden.
The Cardinals long mouth sneered. “Tell me,” he said, “I am right, am I not, when I say that Mary has been disappointed in her lover?”
“Mary does not want…”
“Mary does not want! Of course she wants!”
“But she said…”
“Holy Virgin, have you been such a laggard in love as to ask her what she wants in the matter?” The Cardinal laughed aloud. “Your grandfather, great François, would rise in his grave and come to you with a horsewhip if he knew. You have betrayed the honor of France and the Valois.”
“But if we wish … if we do not want…”
“Poor Mary! So I now understand why she is sick. She is pining. Holy Mother of God! Holy saints! Listen to the boy. He is a poor impotent weakling who begs his wife not to make any demands on his manhood. My boy, all France will reject you. Are you a Frenchman then? Are you the heir of France? Now I know why Mary is sad. Now I know why she pines and droops. She was promised marriage, and she has been given… what? I know not. I dare not think. My poor niece! My poor, poor niece!”
“How… how… dare you!” stammered François. “Remember you speak to the Dauphin.”
“Remember it! I would to God I could forget it. I would I did not belong to this land, the heir of which is a lily-livered timorous girl, masquerading as a man.”
“I … I will tell the King.”
“I beg of you, do not. Do not bring down sorrow on his silver hairs. Do not bring shame to his royal crown. Do not let him know that he has fathered an unnatural monster with whom the most beautiful girl in all France has been unfortunate enough to marry.”
“You have come here to torment me then!”
The Cardinal seized the boys arm. His face was a mask of piety as he raised his eyes to the sky. “No, my son. I have come here to see that you do your duty, not only to my niece but to your ancestors.”
The Dauphins face quivered. “I… I…”
The Cardinal released him and laid an arm about his shoulders. “My dear boy,” he said gently, “my beloved Dauphin, I have been harsh. Sometimes one must be cruel to be kind. I wish to help you. I know how young you are and that you have not had the good health of some of your companions. You have not roamed the countryside with them and partaken in their manly sports and pastimes. My dearest boy, believe me, I
wish to help you. I am your confessor, your priest. It is my place to help you. This marriage must be consummated without delay. It is your duty.” He laughed gently. “Ah, that from which you shrink will give you great joy. Do you remember when you first mounted a horse? You were afraid then. The ground seemed so far away. You were terrified that you would fall. In your heart you hoped that you would never have to ride again. But now you are glad you learned to ride. So it will be in this matter. If you are frightened, if you run away from your duty, you will be ashamed for the rest of your life. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” said the Dauphin.
The Cardinal pressed his shoulder warmly. “I knew that you would. You will grow strong and noble. You will be a man, a worthy successor to your father.”
They returned to the palace.
“Do not mention to Mary what I have said,” warned the Cardinal. “That would be folly. It would not please her to know that it had been necessary to force her husband to his duty.”
The Dauphins face was set and determined. He was no longer the happy bridegroom. A duty lay before him, the execution of which frightened him.
The Cardinal saw his niece before he left. He did not intend to stay. He never made the mistake of overemphasis. If, when the honeymoon was over, the marriage had not been consummated, he would have to consider other methods. What he had done so far would suffice and was, he felt sure, almost certain to succeed.
It had been the wish of the King that the young people should be left entirely to themselves. The King was sentimental where children were concerned, and he remembered the trials of his own early marriage. As for the Queen, she had no wish for the marriage to be consummated, but the Cardinal believed that her wishes were not founded on sentiment.
The consummation of the marriage was vital to the house of Guise; therefore that consummation should take place.
“And it shall!” mused the Cardinal, as he rode away from Villers-Cotterets. “I have injected some manhood into that ungainly mass of corrupting flesh which calls itself Dauphin of France. I am only sorry that my darling should have been given such an unworthy partner in her first excursion into the delights of the flesh.”
THE KING came down to Villers-Cotterets. He had heard that Mary had been ill and that the Dauphin was less happy than he had been on his arrival.
The King came without ceremony, riding there on a hunting expedition.
The young couple were delighted to see him. He scanned their faces eagerly. He was moved as he gazed at them; they were such children, and did he not know what it meant to be a young husband? He remembered even now with a shudder his first weeks of marriage.
“And how are you both, my dear children?” he asked as he embraced them.
“We are very happy, Papa,” they assured him.
Mary was pale; that would be explained by her malady, but the Dauphin seemed shamefaced. They did not tell the King that their happiness had lasted until they had been compelled to indulge in a nightly duty which was distasteful to them both. Henri did not ask. He remembered his own agonies when his witty father had made brilliant remarks to his young son.
They will grow out of it, he promised himself. They are so fond of each other. François turns to her for everything, and she is as ready to comfort him and humor him as she ever was.
Yet so concerned was the King that he decided he would separate the newly married pair for a few weeks and see what effect it had.
“François,” he said, “I wish you to join the camp at Amiens. Honeymoons cannot last forever, you know.”
“No, Papa.”
The King saw the fear leap into the boy’s eyes. He dreaded leaving Mary and Villers-Cotterets for the camp where there would be rough soldiers.
“You will be able to show your skill on horseback,” said his father. “And, my boy, remember you are the Dauphin. Your people will wish to see you. Do not be afraid of them. There is nothing to fear. Remember, one day you will be their King.”
So to the camp at Amiens went François. Mary stayed at Villers-Cotterets, which the King felt would be healthier for her than Paris. He sent her four Marys to her to compensate her for the loss of her husband. He fancied that, while she was sorry to say a brief farewell to François, she was, in a way, relieved. The King believed he understood.
THERE WAS a great deal of excitement in the Court because the Queen of England was dead. Her place had been taken—usurped, said the King, the Guises and almost every Frenchman—by the bastard daughter of the concubine Anne Boleyn; and if the throne of England had not been taken by the bastard Elizabeth, it would surely have fallen to Mary, Queen of Scotland, now Dauphine of France.
“Holy Mother of God!” cried the Duke, his eye watering above his scar. “We’ll take men-at-arms across the sea. By God, we’ll turn the redheaded bastard off the throne.”
But the King was against war. The memory of Saint Quentin rankled. It was no easy task to take men and arms across the Channel. He was all for making peace now with his Imperial enemies. He wished to see the return of Anne de Montmorency, the Constable whom he loved and revered. Even now he was seeking peace and would make no fresh wars.
“An undertaking doomed to failure,” said the King.
He had a better idea. Mary Stuart was rightful Queen of England; therefore on all documents she should be described as such. The armorial bearings of England should be displayed whenever the Dauphin and Dauphine appeared in public. Mary should be known as Dauphine of France, Queen of England, Scotland and the Isles.
The Cardinal and the Duke talked to Mary about her new dignity.
“What will my cousin say when she hears of my claim to her throne?” asked Mary.
“Her throne! Her throne!” cried the Duke testily. “It is your throne. And if I had ten thousand men I’d set you on it without delay.”
But Mary was happy in France. She wished to stay in France. Let her cousin have the throne of England.
The Duke was impatient. Not so the Cardinal. He put his arm about Mary and drew her to him.
“Listen to me, Mary,” he said, “we cannot forsake our duty and your duty is clear. All Christendom is shocked by this usurpation of the English throne. To accept it because it is an easy thing to do is a sin in the eyes of God…. You know full well that Margaret Tudor, daughter of Henry the Seventh of England, married James the Fourth of Scotland and that their son was James the Fifth, your father. Henry the Eighth had one legitimate son and daughter. That son was Edward the Sixth; that daughter was Mary who has now died. Neither left issue. Your grandmother, Margaret Tudor, therefore provides the next line of succession and consequently the Queen of Scotland is the true Queen of England.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“So now, dearest, I know you will not shirk your duty. You will not be guilty of foolish weakness. How do you think God and the saints regard this usurpation of the throne by one who is known to be as immoral as her mother was?”
“Yet… she is my cousin.”
“The daughter of a concubine!”
“But the daughter of the King as well.”
The Cardinal laughed. “My dear Mary, her mother lost her head because she was found guilty of adultery. Now, my darling, purge your mind of foolish thoughts which would be displeasing to God. Your uncle commands you. Nay, how could he command the Queen of Scotland who is also the Queen of England! He begs you instead, my dearest. Will you disappoint him? Will you have him feel that he has wasted all these years when he has tried to show you the path of righteousness?”
“Oh, no, Uncle.”
“Then, my Queen, all is well. Proudly bear your titles, and one day we will drive the redheaded bastard out of England.”
Mary said obediently: “Yes, Uncle. Of course you are right.” But she was thinking of the gown she would wear at the coming pageant, and the last thing she wanted was to be Queen of England, for it might mean leaving the land she loved and of whose Court she was the petted darling.
SIN
CE HIS MARRIAGE the Dauphin had grown much taller, but although he himself was delighted with this, it was clear that the sudden shooting up had done little to improve his health. He now became possessed with a mad desire to shine in all sports and pastimes. He would ride for long hours and return exhausted. Mary remonstrated but he replied: “Others do it. Why should not I?”
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.”
