Royal Road to Fotheringhay

by Jean Plaidy

  “Madame, I should wish to remain here. I have my estates in France. I would retire from the Court if necessary.”

  The King said: “It is not our wish that you should do so. We wish you to stay here, dear Mary.”

  “Your Majesty is good to me. It is a great comfort to me to know of your kindness.”

  “Dearest Mary, I have always loved you,” said the King.

  His mother had gripped his shoulder so hard that he winced and, turning angrily, he scowled at her. Mary watched them and she saw the fear which suddenly came into the boy’s face.

  Catherine laughed loudly. “The King feels tender toward you,” she said. “He remembers the love his brother bore you. We shall be desolate when you leave us.”

  “Mary is not going to leave us,” cried the King wildly. He took Mary’s hand and began to kiss it passionately. “No, Mary, you shall stay. I say so… I say so… and I am the King.”

  The red blood suffused the King’s cheeks; his lips began to twitch.

  “I cannot have the King agitated,” said Catherine looking coldly at Mary, as though she were the cause of his distress.

  “Perhaps if he speaks his mind freely,” said Mary, “he will be less agitated.”

  “At such a time! And my little son with such greatness thrust upon him, and he but a child… scarcely out of his nursery! Oh, I thank God that he has a mother to stand beside him at this time, to guide him, to counsel him, to give freely of her love and the wisdom she has gleaned through experience … for he has need of it. He has need of it indeed.”

  “I am the King, Madame,” persisted Charles.

  “You are the King, my son, but you are a child. The ministers about your throne will tell you that. Your mother tells you. Your country expects wisdom of you far beyond your nine years. You must listen to the counsels of those who wish you well for, believe me, my son, there are many in this realm who would be your deadly enemies if they dared.”

  A terrible fear showed in the little boy’s face and Mary wondered what stories of the fate which would befall an unwanted king had been poured into his ears.

  Charles stammered: “But… but everybody will be glad if Mary stays here. Everybody loves Mary. They were so pleased when she married François.”

  “But Mary has her kingdom to govern. They are waiting for her, those countrymen of hers. Do you think they will allow her to stay here forever? I doubt it. Oh, I greatly doubt it. I’ll swear that at this moment they are preparing a great welcome for her. She has her brothers there, remember. James Stuart… Robert and John Stuart and hundreds… nay, thousands of loyal subjects. Her neighbor and sister across the border will rejoice, I am sure, to know that her dear cousin of Scotland is not so far away as hitherto.”

  Mary cried out: “I am so recently a widow. I have lost a husband whom I loved dearly. And you come to me—”

  “To tell you of my sympathy. You were his wife, my dear, but I was his mother.”

  “I loved him. He and I were together always.”

  “He and I were together even longer. He was with me before the rest of the world ever saw him. Think of that. And ask yourself whether your grief can be greater than mine.”

  “Madame, it would seem so,” said Mary impulsively.

  Catherine laid a hand on her shoulder. “My dear Queen of Scotland, I am an old woman; you are a young one. When you have reached my age you will doubtless have learned that grief should be controlled—not only for the good of the sufferer but for those about her.”

  “You cannot care as I do.”

  “Can grief be weighed?” asked Catherine, turning her eyes to the ceiling. “You are young. There will be suitors and you will find a new husband… one who, I doubt not, will please you better than my dear son did.”

  “I beg of you… stop!” implored Mary.

  Charles cried: “Mary… Mary… you shall not go. I’ll not allow it. I am the King and I will marry you.”

  Catherine laughed yet again. “You see the King of France is but a child. He knows not the meaning of marriage.”

  “I do!” declared Charles hotly. “I do.”

  “You shall marry at the right time, my darling. And then who knows who your bride will be.”

  “Madame, it must be Mary. It must.”

  “My son—”

  Charles stamped his foot; his twitching fingers began to pull at his doublet and the golden fringe came away in his hand. He flung it from him and turned his blazing eyes on his mother. “It shall be Mary! I want Mary. I love Mary.”

  He threw himself at the young widow, flung his arms about her waist and buried his hot quivering face in the white brocade of her gown.

  “It is so touching,” said Catherine. “Come, my dear little King. If this is your wish… well then, you are a king and a king’s wishes are not to be ignored. But to speak of this … so soon after your brother has died and is scarce cold in his grave … it frightens me. You want your brother’s wife. I beg of you keep quiet on such a matter for, with your brother so recently dead, it is a sin. Why, you will be afraid tonight when the candles are doused and your apartment is in darkness. You will be afraid of your brother’s accusing ghost.”

  Charles had released Mary. He was staring at his mother and biting his lips; his hands began to pull once more at his doublet.

  Catherine put her arm about him and held him against her.

  “Do not tremble, my son. All will be well. Your mother has that which will protect you from evil spirits. But she needs your collaboration in this. Do not put into words thoughts which could bring disaster to you.”

  Mary cried out: “Madame, I am mourning my husband. I would wish to be alone.”

  “You poor child. It is true. You are mourning. This is not the time to remind you that, as Dowager Queen of France, you are no longer in a position to order the Queen-Mother of France from your apartment. We understand that it is the extremity of your grief which has made you forget this little detail. We know that when you emerge from your mourning you will fully realize your changed position. There, my child, do not let your grief overwhelm you. You have had many happy years with us here in France. If, by some ill chance, you should have to leave us, remember you will be going to your own country. It is not France, we know, but you will love it the more because it is yours. You will be a neighbor of your cousin of England—”

  “Who hates me,” put in Mary.

  “Hates you! And you her cousin!”

  “She will never forgive me for calling myself Queen of England.”

  Catherine looked grave. “Ah! It is a pity that you could not have foreseen this day. I remember well your riding in your litter proudly bearing England’s arms. What pride was yours! Not content with two crowns, you must have a third!”

  “I but obeyed the orders of your husband, the King, and of my own husband.”

  “And now they are no longer here to share the blame! Have no fear. You are young and many have told you that you are beautiful. It is a fact which you know full well, so I have no need to remind you of it. I am sure the Queen of England will soon have the same affection for you as you have inspired in me. We will leave you now to your mourning.”

  Mary knelt and took the cold hand. What were those expressionless eyes telling her? You have stepped down from your pedestal and I am in control now. Do not expect friendship from one whose friendship you never sought. You have learned one lesson in France, Mary Stuart. You have learned what a fool you have been to flout Catherine de Médicis, that daughter of tradesmen.

  HER UNCLES came to see her. They had changed since Francois’s death. Their power had been stripped from them. Anne de Montmorency had been recalled; the Queen-Mother was now the Regent of France and it was said that she had complete control over the nine-year-old King. Overnight she had stepped into that position which, during the reign of François and Mary, had been filled by the brothers Guise.

  How to recover that position! That was the urgent concern of François de Guise
and Charles de Lorraine.

  “We have come to discuss the future, Mary,” said the Duke.

  “I do not wish to go to Scotland,” said Mary quickly.

  “Nor do we wish you to,” the Cardinal assured her. “If all we have in mind shall come to pass, there would be no need of that.”

  “Many suitors are presenting themselves,” the Duke told her. “There are Frederick of Denmark and Eric of Sweden—” began the Duke.

  “None of whom we feel are worthy of you,” put in the Cardinal.

  “There is Arran, whom his father is urging forward,” added the Duke; “although he himself is most eager to come.”

  “Poor Arran!” murmured Mary.

  “They say his brain is soft,” said the Cardinal, “and has been since he set eyes on you when he was at Court. They say he was first sick with love, and then mad with love for the most beautiful girl in the world. We should not wish you to make so poor a match.”

  “Tell her of that other youth,” interrupted the Duke.

  The Cardinal’s smile was a sneer. “What impudence! There has arrived at the Court one whose mother has sent him to offer condolences for your loss. Condolences, indeed! The youth is delighted by your loss! That is, if he has the sense to understand what his mother must have been at great pains to hammer into his head. He comes full of hopes… conscious of his royalty … a youth of fifteen, a tall, gangling boy, unsure of anything but that he has royal blood in his veins. He comes to offer condolences from his parents to their kinswoman and to express the hope—oh, most subtly—that if Your Majesty should be looking for another husband, you might be enchanted by a fellow like himself.”

  “Who is this?” asked Mary.

  “Young Henry Darnley, whose mother, Lennox’s wife, will have all the world know that as she was the daughter of Margaret Tudor, sister of Henry the Eighth of England, her son is not without some pretension to the throne of England… and of Scotland too. Madame Lennox presents her long lean son for your inspection. I dare swear she thinks that, once having clapped your eyes on him, you’ll find it hard to refuse him your bed, your crown, and all that is yours.”

  “My dear uncles, I am pained by all this talk of marriage. It is too soon as yet. I have so recently been a wife, so short a time a widow.”

  The Duke showed impatience, but the Cardinal laid his arm about her shoulders. “My dearest,” he murmured, “there should be no wedding for a reasonable time. But your affairs are of great moment… not only to us but to the whole world. Do you want to be treated continually as you have been treated since the death of François? Do not tell me! I know that Catherine has made you feel your position keenly. You are a queen and queenly. You would never be happy in a lowly state. You were meant to rule. Your proud carriage says so. Your dignity demands it. That is why we have two matches in mind for you—either would bring you great glory. The first is with the King of France.”

  Mary cried in terror: “But Charles… Charles … he is not entirely sane. He … he frightens me.”

  “Frightens you?” said the Duke. “A King of France frightens you!”

  “A madman frightens me,” she retorted. “You talk of the children I might have… with a madman as their father!”

  “Madness is no deterrent to fertility,” asserted the Duke.

  “Mary,” soothed the Cardinal, “you would never shirk your duty… I know. You could be Queen of France again. You could stay in the land you love. There is no other Court—save one—worthy of you.”

  “The Court of Spain!” put in the Duke triumphantly. “Don Carlos, son of great Philip, has need of a wife. We have approached the King of Spain and he is not averse to the match. He wishes to see Scotland firmly settled in the Catholic Faith. Think, Mary. One day the crown of Spain may be yours.”

  “It is too soon,” pleaded Mary. “I beg of you… leave me now.”

  The Cardinal put his arm about her and said softly: “The Queen of Spain… the mightiest throne in all Europe … a young husband who will adore you. You will be reuinted with your dear little friend Elisabeth who is now the Queen of Spain herself. Oh, Mary, some people are born for distinction. You are one of them.”

  She closed her eyes. She felt so weary. A terrible depression had come over her. She wished to be alone that she might throw herself onto her bed and weep.

  MARY COULD NOT help liking the youth who brought such kind messages from his mother. Henry Darnley was handsome. His large blue eyes and fair hair were almost feminine in their charm; and his manners were not without grace, though naturally seeming a little rough compared with those of the French courtiers.

  Mary was sorry for his shyness and tried to make him feel at ease, to forget she was the Queen by reminding him that they were cousins.

  “Your Majesty is gracious,” he told her.

  When she asked him to play the lute for her—she had heard that he was a master of that instrument—he was glad to do so, and she listened with delight; he played quite charmingly.

  He told her he wrote poetry also and he brought her some verses he had written for her. She was delighted with them. They made a poor showing against the polished artistry of Ronsard and his fellow poets but they had good feeling in them, as she told him.

  He could dance well and was an enthusiastic follower of the chase. His conversation was of sport and pleasure.

  When he left after his brief stay at Court, she was sorry to see him go, but in a day she had forgotten him.

  WHEN THE COURT left for Fontainebleau Mary went with it. The Queen-Mother was coolly polite to her, but beneath the veneer of politeness there was an insolence. It was as though she knew some exciting secret which concerned Mary, and which she longed to impart. It must be unpleasant, thought Mary, otherwise it would not have pleased Catherine so much.

  Whenever the King saw Mary he would gaze longingly at her. There were times when it appeared as though he would throw himself upon her, and yet always he seemed to be conscious of the invisible restraining hand. It was almost uncanny, but then the power of the Queen-Mother was uncanny.

  She was thinking more and more about the journey to Spain. It was alarming to consider Don Carlos. Was he really as degenerate as rumor suggested? He was but a boy. There had been evil rumors concerning François, but how happy she had been with him!

  There was one thing she dreaded more than all others: return to Scotland.

  Her optimism, never long absent, returned to her during those difficult weeks. She would not return to Scotland. Everything could be easily arranged. Her brother, Lord James, longed for the Regency. Let him have it. It was his great desire to govern Scotland; it was her great desire to stay away from Scotland. She would face the truth. She loved to be gay, and the Scots looked on gaiety as a sin. There was no comfort in their castles; there were no merry dances, no versifying, no pleasant pastimes. Scotland was straining towards Puritanism and Mary Stuart could never be a Puritan.

  Now that her uncles had retired from Court her new position was brought home to her afresh. At Fontainebleau the Earl of Bedford and the English ambassador, Sir Nicholas Throgmorton, called upon her; and there was no one to advise her how to deal with these gentlemen.

  They surveyed her with solemn dignity. They were aloof and cool.

  Inexperienced as she was, hurt and humiliated by Catherine, she allowed herself to show a haughtiness which was dictated by her hot temper rather than a considered diplomatic attitude. It had been all very well to flout the English when she was the wife of the King of France; now she stood alone; she was merely the Queen of a small country whose affairs were in disorder.

  “The Queen of England,” Bedford began, “requires the immediate ratification of the Edinburgh treaty.”

  She knew that the Edinburgh treaty claimed for Elizabeth the sole right to the throne of England and that Mary Stuart should recognize her as such “for all time coming.”

  She was not pleased by the Englishmen’s arrogant attitude toward her. They implied t
hat their Queens will should be Mary’s. She was bewildered, inexperienced in dealing with such situations alone, so she obeyed those inclinations dictated by her pride.

  Her uncles and Henri of France had assured her that she was the rightful heir to England. At the moment she was in decline but she would not always be so. One day she might be Queen of Spain and then these Englishmen would think twice before addressing her as they did now.

  She said: “My lords, I shall not sign the treaty of Edinburgh.”

  “It has been signed in Edinburgh, Madame.”

  “But it would seem that it does not become valid until you have my signature.”

  This they could not deny.

  Here was another of those moments of folly, the result of hurt pride and ignorance.

  “Then, my lords, I will say to you that I cannot give you the signature for which you ask. I must have time to ponder the matter.”

  Exasperated, they left her. They wrote to their mistress; and Elizabeth of England vowed that she would never forgive—and never trust—her Scottish kinswoman as long as that beautiful head remained on those elegant shoulders.

  SHE TRAVELED down to Rheims to stay for a while with her aunt, Renée de Guise, at the Abbey Saint-Pierre-les-Dames. Renée, the sister of those ambitious uncles, was quite unlike them. Perhaps she, a member of that mighty and ambitious family, had felt the need to escape to a nunnery in order to eschew that ambition which was at the very heart of the family’s tradition.

  There was quietness with Renée, but Mary did not want quiet. She was restless.

  Renée, knowing that Mary was troubled, tried to help her through prayer. Mary realized that Renée was suggesting that if she too would shun ambition—as Renée had done—she might find peace in a life of dedication to prayer and service to others.

  Mary, emotional in the extreme, thought for a short time—a very short time—of the peace to be found within convent walls. But when she looked in her mirror and saw her own beautiful face, and thought of dancing and masking with herself the centre of attention, when she remembered the admiration she had seen in the eyes of those men who surrounded her, she knew that whatever she had to suffer in the future—even if it meant returning to Scotland—it was the only life that would be acceptable to her.