by Jean Plaidy
The Cardinal now saw that her attention wandered. He said: “What did you think of the messenger? Was he not a crude clown? It is a sad thing that your mother could not find one more worthy of the mission. But, by all accounts, he may be trusted, which is more than can be said for most of these Scotsmen. A rough fellow—but he did good work on the Border. Such works suits him better, I’ll vow, than playing ambassador. Murder and rape are his profession. We shall have to warn our ladies. We do not want him to offend them. We shall have to protect our serving girls. I hear he has a fondness for such.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” said Mary. “My mother says he is a faithful servant. I should not like her ambassador to make trouble here… even if it were only with serving girls.”
“I had him watched in Denmark and Flanders. He is in some trouble with a woman now. It is unfortunate. She is the daughter of a retired admiral—Christopher Throndsen, a man of some standing in Copenhagen. He promised the girl marriage, promptly seduced her, and now there is to be a child and he has left her to fend for herself in Flanders.”
“It is clear that he is a brute,” said Mary.
“He considers, I fancy, that he has behaved with decorum. Seduction is new to him; rape is his business.”
Mary shuddered. “Dearest uncle, do you mind if we speak of his affairs no more? I find them distasteful.”
The faintest satisfaction showed in the Cardinal’s face. All was well. The man disgusted her. Her womanhood still slumbered.
LORD BOTHWELL stretched his legs on the bed in the apartment which had been assigned to him. His page, whom he had engaged recently because the fellow’s cheeky manners appealed to him, and whom he called “French Paris” though his name was really Nicholas Hubert, knelt to take off his master’s boots.
“Have done!” growled Bothwell. “I shall be up again in a minute, and then you’d be obliged to put them on again.”
Paris grinned. He enjoyed serving this master. Both well’s love affairs were Paris’s constant delight, and his greatest pleasure was to have some hand in arranging them.
“And what thought my lord of the Queen of France?”
Bothwell was silent for a few seconds. Then he said: “It would seem to me that she’ll not be long for this world. But mayhap it’s this Court with its dancing and fancy ways. Mayhap our Scottish breezes would put her on the road to health.”
Paris had not wanted an opinion of the Queen’s health. She was, he had heard, the most desirable woman in the world. Surely his lord had noticed that?
“She’s a well-formed lass,” went on the Earl. “But she needs to be taken out of soft wrappings and to rough it as her mother did. She seemed to know nothing of the country she is supposed to rule, and cares, I’ll swear, as little. ’Tis as well for her that she’s Queen of France and not obliged to live in her own country. We should have to teach her one or two things if she did.”
Paris nodded. “There’s much your lordship could teach her, I doubt not.”
Bothwell was silent for a few moments before he said: “The Cardinal of Lorraine would seem to be King of this realm… with his brother thrown in. ‘Do this!’ ‘Do that!’ he says, and the Queen does it. ‘Don’t listen to this and don’t read that!’ And she smiles and lets him have his way.”
“He’s her uncle, my lord, but his reputation is the worst in the world.”
Bothwell leaped off his bed suddenly. “And how does hers stand?” he demanded. “I wonder! It would not surprise me if she were the Cardinal’s mistress.”
“My lord!”
“Where I come from we don’t mince our words. It would seem to me that she does all the Cardinal asks. And when it is a matter of asking anything of a woman, the Cardinal would not be backward in his demands—niece or no niece, queen or tavern girl. Moreover I have seen that between them which tempts me to believe it. It would not surprise me at all.”
“And does my lord relish the thought?”
“Our Queen the Cardinal’s loose woman to do his commands! What think you?”
Paris came closer and whispered: “And does your lordship find it hard to stomach the thought for another reason?”
“What reason, fellow?”
“That your lordship would not mind being in the Cardinal’s shoes for a spell?”
The Earl cuffed the man, and Paris retired, holding his ears but still grinning.
“A skittering lass!” Bothwell murmured to himself.
OF WHAT COULD he talk to the Queen? He could tell her of the money he had lost in the defense of Leith; he could ask for the recompense he so sorely needed. He had talked to those men who had been engaged in the defense of Scotland with him and who were now at St. Germain-en-Laye—Seton, Martigues and the Sieur d’Oysel. The Queen, they had told him, had been disinclined to grant their claims—on the advice of the Cardinal, of course. They were disgruntled, all of them.
This was not the occasion, Bothwell realized, to talk of his just deserts. He would try then to warn the Queen and to make sure that, when she formed her new government, he was selected to play a prominent part in it.
At this time the Cardinal decided that he could no longer keep the Queen in ignorance of her mother’s death.
Mary was stunned by the news. Ignorant as she had been of the state of affairs in Scotland, she realized that, now that her mother was unable to guard her throne, it would be in peril.
She shut herself away to grieve alone, and her grief was great. It was nine years since her mother had visited the Court of France and yet they had remained close through their letters. Mary knew that she had lost one of the best friends she could ever have.
What would happen in Scotland now? Her thoughts went to the Borderer who had disturbed her with his bold personality. He would know, and he had been especially recommended to her by her mother.
It was easier for them to talk of Scotland now that she knew of her mother’s death. Bothwell could talk freely of the perilous state of affairs which had sprung up. There was peace with England, it was true; but there were many warring elements within the troubled realm.
She received him in private. She was wan from the past days of mourning.
She said: “My lord, you have come recently from Scotland. You will have knowledge of how matters go there. How fares my brother? I should like to see him again—dear Jamie! We were always so fond of each other.”
A faint smile curved the Earl’s lips. Dear Jamie! The lass was not fit to govern a rough kingdom. Did she not realize that her “dear Jamie” would never forgive her for being born legitimate when he—older, wiser, stronger and a man—might have been King? These French had made her soft. He could see in her eyes the affection she bore her big brother. It did not seem to occur to her that the crown came between her and any love Lord James Stuart might have for her.
But how tell a sentimental and emotional woman to beware of her brother! How speak to her of those hardy men of intrigue—James Douglas, Ruthven, Morton?
All he could do was advise her to form, without delay, a governing party; and because of his knowledge of her Scottish subjects, he could at least give her the names of those whom she could trust—farther than most, he might add.
He himself would take a prominent part in the governing body. He believed Huntley and Atholl too could be trusted.
He did not trust the Bastard of Scotland, but it would be impossible to leave Lord James Stuart out of such a governing body.
The Queen was ready to put her faith in Bothwell.
He looked at her with mild contempt. She was Queen of a troublous realm which she did not even wish to see. He understood perfectly. She liked this soft Court where gallants ducked and bobbed and scented themselves and jangled their jewels in their doublets and even in their ears; she liked pretty verses and music and clever conversation.
It was a sad day, decided the Earl of Bothwell, when Mary of Guise had died and left her frivolous young daughter to fend for herself.
THE COLD W
INTER had set in, and the Court was preparing to leave the Balliage where they had been staying in the City of Orléans. The royal baggage, with the magnificent beds and tapestries, had been loaded, and they were ready to travel to Chenonceaux.
Lord Bothwell had left France, and Mary was glad. When he went he seemed to take with him her uneasy thoughts of her kingdom across the seas.
Lately Mary had been conscious of a growing alertness in the face of Queen Catherine. Francois’s mother rarely left his side. She was solicitous of the throbbing pain in his ear for which she was constantly supplying lotions and potions to subdue his suffering. Paré, the great doctor, was in attendance upon the King.
Mary knew from the grave face of the doctor and the closed expression on the face of the Queen-Mother, that François was very ill indeed, far worse than he had ever been before.
She was very anxious on this day of departure, for she knew the keen wind would set Francois’s ear throbbing afresh. The swelling was angrily inflamed and the pain almost unendurable.
She and François were about to mount their horses when François, suddenly putting his hand to his ear, fell fainting to the ground.
There was great consternation, for it was clear that the King was very ill indeed. Mary knelt beside François, and a great fear overcame her for she recognized the signs of approaching death.
Catherine was on the other side of her son. For a moment it was as though a shutter had been drawn aside and Mary glimpsed that in the Italian woman’s face which she would rather not have seen.
Catherine knew her son was dying, but Mary realized she felt no grief; instead she had betrayed her great exultation.
MARY SAT by the bed which had been hastily set up. François was too weak for speech, but he knew she was there and that knowledge comforted him. Occasionally his pain-crazed eyes would be turned to her, and one word formed on his lips, though no sound came: Mary.
Mary knew that her uncles would be hurrying to Orléans, but she felt desperately alone. She wanted to put her arms about her dying husband and protect him from the quiet woman who glided about the apartment, masking her elation, saying soothing words, bringing soothing drinks. Could it be true that a mother could wish her son dead? Could it be true that her personal power meant more to her than the boy who had once been part of her body? Mary could not believe that. But there were such strange stories about this woman.
“Something must be done!” she cried passionately.
She summoned Monsieur Paré to her. She said she wished to be alone with him; but her mother-in-law was in the apartment, calm and determined.
“I am his mother,” she said. “You cannot shut me out.”
“Monsieur Paré,” said Mary, “there must be something which can be done. I beg of you to do it.”
“Your Majesty, I would attempt an operation but it might fail. But if there is no operation the King will certainly die.”
“I will not have my son suffer unnecessarily,” said Catherine. “I must speak with Monsieur Paré. I must know exactly what this attempt will mean. I cannot allow my son to suffer unnecessarily. I am his mother. I would do anything in the world to save him unnecessary pain.”
“We are speaking of his life,” said Mary fiercely.
Catherine turned to the door: “Monsieur Paré, the Queen is a young wife who loves her husband. She is filled with grief and that grief overwhelms her. Monsieur Paré, I am his mother. I must speak with you alone. I must know exactly what this means.”
The surgeon cried out in desperation: “Madame, there is a chance to save the Kings life … a frail one. It is by no means certain. Immediate action would be necessary. There is a slight hope of success, but if nothing is done he cannot last more than a few hours.”
“It is because of that that I will not have him suffer unnecessarily. My son… my poor little François! He is still that to me, though he may be the King.”
“We waste time,” cried Mary frantically. “Precious time …”
“You are right,” said the Queen. “There is no time to lose.” She took the doctors arm. “I must talk with you first, Monsieur Paré. Before this operation is performed I must have careful speech with you alone.”
Paré looked from the face of the wife to that of the mother. One was a young girl—almost hysterical with grief—the other was a calm woman.
Catherine took him by the arm and led him from the room.
They were a long time gone, and when they returned Mary’s uncles had arrived.
Mary sat by the bed in desolation. There was now a rattle in the King’s throat. Mary knew, when Paré returned to the apartment with Catherine, that it was too late to do anything more to save François.
THE SNOWFLAKES were tapping gently on the window; the wind moaned outside. All those about the bed watched the wan face of the dying King.
The Cardinal had taken the young mans hand; he bent closer over the bed. Even the Cardinal was awed in the presence of death; even to this man came a glimmer of remorse for all he had done to the dying boy.
“Say after me,” he commanded, as all through the boy’s reign he had commanded, “say this: ‘Lord, pardon my sins and impute not to me, thy servant, the sins committed by my ministers under my name and authority’”
The wan lips moved and tried to frame the words.
“Oh, God, listen to him,” prayed Mary. “It was not at his command that the waters of the Loire were stained bloodred. He had no hand in what was done at Amboise. Remember that and do not blame François.”
Catherine came closer to the bed. She said: “It is all over. The King is dead.”
She did not say, but she meant: Long live the King… the new King.
She was determined to govern Charles as the Guises had governed François and Mary.
Mary watched her fearfully as she stood there, her white hands folded on her black gown, forcing sorrow into the face which was beginning to inspire great fear in Mary’s heart.
THEY WALKED solemnly out of the chamber of death—the widowed Queens side by side.
Tears were running slowly down Mary’s face. Her one thought was to make her way with all speed to her own apartments, to lie on her bed, draw the curtains, and demand that she be left alone with her grief.
They were at the door; she would have passed through but there was a light detaining touch on her arm.
Queen Catherine was beside her, pressing her large body gently forward, reminding her that she, Mary, must stand aside now as once Catherine had stood aside for her.
Queen Catherine wished her to know in this moment of bitter grief that Mary was no longer first lady in the land. Catherine was in the ascendant; Mary was in decline.
SIX
IN THE SHROUDED CHAMBER THE YOUNG WIDOW SAT ALONE. Her face was pale beneath the white coif; the flowing robes of her white dress fell to the floor; even her shoes were white. The chamber was lighted only by tapers and it seemed like a tomb to Mary.
She paced the room. She had no tears left. Since her first coming to the Court of France, François had been her friend and her devoted slave. Had she been at times a little too arrogant, a little too certain of his devotion? If she could only have him back now, how she would assure him of this love which she only knew went so deep since she had lost him.
What tragic changes had overtaken her life! She thought of her uncles as they had been on the day of François’s death, standing with her, one on either side of her, while the nobles of the Court, led by Queen Catherine, went to the apartments of the little Charles to do homage to the new King.
They had said nothing to her, those uncles; but she knew they were disappointed in her. There should have been a child, their eyes accused her. A child would have changed everything. Their sinister implication was: If François could not give you a child, there were others who could.
What was honor to those uncles of hers? What was morality? All that mattered was the power of Guise and Lorraine; and, according to them, she had failed
in her duty toward her maternal house.
What would become of her?
She smoothed the folds of the deuil blanc, apprehensive of the unknown doom which must soon overtake her.
DURING THOSE first weeks of mourning she must see no one except her attendants and members of the royal family.
They came to visit her—Charles, the nine-year-old King, and Catherine, his mother.
Mary knelt before the boy, who, in his newfound dignity, commanded: “Rise, dear Mary.”
She should have been comforted by the love she saw in his eyes, but she realized that, young as he was, the love he bore her was not that of a brother. The young King’s eyes grew feverish as they studied the white-clad figure. It was as though he were saying: “I am the King of France now that François is dead. There is nothing between us now.”
Could this thing come to pass? Was it possible that she might again be Queen of France? This boy—this unbalanced child who was now the King—wished it; her uncles would do all in their power to bring it about, for if she married Charles the Guises’ power would be unchanged. The only difference would be that in place of gentle François, Mary would have a new husband, wild Charles.
Catherine was closely watching her son’s face. She said: “It is sad for you, my daughter, to be thus alone. Forty days and forty nights … it is a long time to mourn.”
“It seems a short time, Madame,” said Mary. “I shall mourn the late King all my life.”
Catherine puffed her lips. “You are young yet. When you return to your own country you will mayhap have another husband to love.”
Mary could not hide the fear which showed in her face. That was what she dreaded more than anything—to leave the land which she had come to look upon as her own, to sail away to the dismal country of which she had bleak memories and was reminded every now and then when the crude-mannered Scots came to the Court of France. She could not bear to lose her husband, her position and her country at one blow. That would be too much to endure.
