Текст книги "Royal Road to Fotheringhay "

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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She believed that she could use him in the future. James was less calculating. He had the Borderer’s instinct: a successful Lieutenant of the Border, it had been his custom to take his choice of the women prisoners, and the affair would be over and done with quickly; he gave it not another thought. He wished it could always be thus, but there were occasions, in a more regulated society than that of a town in the process of ravishment, when certain tiresome preliminaries were necessary.

Anna was attractive enough to occupy his attention for more than one night—or even two. She saw the ambitious man in her lover; she saw the Scots noble from impoverished estates, so she allowed the rumor to be put about that she was an heiress to no small fortune. James swallowed the bait and suggested marriage.

He had never met such a clever woman. In no time she was pregnant. They must be married. She was the daughter of an honorable Danish family.

He had discovered Anna’s fortune to be mythical; he had also discovered that his desire for her was on the wane; but he could not elude her altogether. When he was ready to leave Denmark (and at that time he had not heard of the death of the Queen-Mother of Scotland and was therefore a petitioner in a hospitable land) he must take her with him, her family said; and in view of the delicate political situation he could see no alternative.

So he and Anna left Copenhagen, but when they reached Flanders he reasoned with her.

“Should I arrive at the French Court with a mistress big with child?” he demanded. “We shall have those dandified ninnies laughing behind our backs.”

“You could arrive with the Countess of Bothwell whose condition is a delight to you,” said Anna quickly.

“A speedy marriage… and in a foreign land? Impossible!”

“With a man such as you are nothing is impossible.”

There was some truth in that, he thought, and, by God, I’ll not take you farther. Hard as it is to rid myself of your company, you are right when you say that with me nothing is impossible.

He was cunning; he had merely been caught by the unexpectedness of her tactics, for previously he had never been forced to plead with a woman; he had said: “Come hither!” and they came; he coolly walked off afterward, leaving them weeping and hoping for his return. He should have known Anna was no ordinary woman.

“The French,” he said contemptuously, “are sticklers for their etiquette. The Queen has been brought up as one of them. I have my future to consider.”

“I shall see to it,” said Anna demurely, “that it is our future.”

But Anna, as her pregnancy advanced, grew less truculent. She wished only to lie and rest half the day. The prospect of an uncomfortable journey across Flanders alarmed her, and she knew that he would not marry her until they reached Scotland and that it would be necessary to have their child legitimized after its birth. But she would know how to find him; he was too prominent a man to be able to lose himself.

So when he continued to urge that she should stay in Flanders while he went on alone to the French Court, she at length agreed.

Her farewell was tender, but it held a warning in it. James remembered that warning now. It was ominous. “Do not think I am a woman to be lightly taken up and then cast off. If you think that, James Hepburn, you do not know Anna Throndsen.”

This would be a lesson to him in future. But he had no great qualms. He was not one to brood on the future; he let that take care of itself. He had been in too many scrapes to worry about consequences; he had faced death so often that he was not to be alarmed by a persistent woman.

A page came to him and, bowing before him, asked if Lord Bothwell would be so good as to follow him.

He did so until the page threw open a door and announced: “My Lord, the Earl of Bothwell.”

He started forward expecting to see the young Queen of whom he had heard so much. Instead it was a red-clad figure, tall, dignified and imposing; and he recognized the Cardinal of Lorraine who, he had heard, with the help of his brother ruled France.

The two men took each other’s measure. The sensuality of each was his most outstanding characteristic, yet there could not have been two men more different. The Cardinal was the gourmet, Bothwell the gourmand. The Cardinal was subtle; Bothwell was direct. One was a man of physical inactivity, the other a man of action. The Cardinal pandered to his sensual appetites, using aphrodisiac means—mental and physical—to stimulate them; Bothwell needed no such stimulation. The Cardinal was a coward; Bothwell did not know the meaning of fear. They were two strong men, but their strength lay in different directions.

The Cardinal disliked the boldness of the coarse Borderer; Bothwell disdained the arrogance of the elegant gentleman. But they were each aware of the power possessed by the other. The Cardinal, by far the cleverer of the two, was able to hide his resentment the more easily.

“I had thought to see my Queen,” said Bothwell.

“Monsieur,” smiled the Cardinal, “you have come from Scotland where Court manners are slightly different. In France we await the pleasure of the Queen. We do not present ourselves unless commanded to do so.”

“I have letters from the Queens late mother. Doubtless she will be eager to receive them.”

“Doubtless. But as Queen of France she has much with which to occupy herself. I know you have come from Denmark where you did good work. I heard from my dear sister, before her unfortunate demise, that you were a worthy young man whom she delighted to honor with her trust. I therefore welcome you to the Court of France.”

“You are gracious, Monsieur le Cardinal, but it is my Queen I have come to see.”

“You have the letters from her mother?” The Cardinal extended his slim white hand.

“My instructions were to hand them to none but the Queen herself.”

“The Queen has no secrets from me.”

“So I have heard,” answered Bothwell. “But those were my instructions.”

The Cardinal sighed. “There is one matter I must discuss with you. The Queen does not know of her mothers death. I myself wish to break the news and break it gently. She has suffered from bad health lately and I fear the shock might prove too much for her.”

Bothwell’s lips were set in an obstinate line. He did not see why he should take orders from the Cardinal. He disliked taking orders. His policy with the late Queen had been a bold one. He was no Court intrigant and flatterer. Now that her mother was dead it was well for the Queen of Scots to know of the acute danger which such a situation threatened. He had come to warn her of just that; and now, this man, doubtless for reasons of his own, was forcing him to silence on a most important issue.

“I have had no instructions,” declared Bothwell, “to keep silent on this matter.”

“Until now… no,” agreed the Cardinal.

“My lord Cardinal, this is a matter which I must discuss with others of my countrymen. Lord Seton is here at Saint-Germain. I—”

“That gentleman has already received his instructions in the matter.”

“And the King of France?” said Bothwell with a trace of insolence. “These are his instructions?”

“The King, Monsieur, knows nothing of the tragedy. If he knew of it, he would be unable to prevent himself from imparting it to the Queen.”

“So then the King and Queen are kept in ignorance of certain facts which concern them!”

The Cardinal decided to smile at such insolence. He said: “The King and Queen are very young—little more than children. It is the express desire of her uncle, the Duke of Guise, and myself as well as the Queen-Mother of France, not to overtax them. We lighten their burdens as best we can. It is our considered opinion, in view of the Queen’s failing health, that she should not at present suffer the shock such news would give her. Therefore, my lord Bothwell, you will say nothing of her mother’s death. I myself will break the news to her when I consider she is fit to receive it.”

“You are not afraid that someone’s indiscretion may betray the news?”

“We know how to deal with indiscreet people, my lord. And all of us who love the Queen have no wish to do aught which would bring harm to her. Give me your assurance that you will say nothing of her mother’s death, and no obstacle shall be put in the way of your meeting the Queen.”

Bothwell hesitated, but only for a moment. He was sharp enough to see that this man could prevent his meeting with the Queen.

“I give my word,” he said.

The Cardinal was satisfied. There was that about the Scottish adventurer which implied that having given his word he would keep it.

JAMES HEPBURN, Earl of Bothwell, stood before the Queen of France and Scotland.

He had knelt and kissed her hand and had now been bidden to rise. He was acutely aware, among those about her, of the red-clad figure of the Cardinal.

So here was the Queen of Scotland! he pondered. This was the young woman of whom he had heard so much. This was the “skittering lass” the Hamiltons referred to. She was but a pale and delicate girl.

It was characteristic of James Hepburn that in those few seconds he had stripped her of her royalty and had seen her as a woman. He was aware of curling chestnut hair that gleamed red and gold in places, long—but not large—eyes, a gentle and smiling mouth, a skin that was pale and delicate, a carriage which suggested pride of race and great dignity. He thought her fair enough, but he had been expecting one more dazzling. He thought of Anna’s dark beauty; Mary Stuart’s was of a different kind.

That underlying, but as yet unawakened sensuality which was the secret cause—far more than her beauty—of Mary’s attractiveness, was beyond his perception. He was attracted by the obvious. He thought Mary unhealthy and the unhealthy did not please him. She was French, for all she called herself the Queen of Scots. Her dress and manners—everything about her—was French. She was a fragile and pretty creature—that was all as far as he could judge.

That she was his Queen was quite another matter.

“My Lord Bothwell,” she addressed him, “you have brought letters from my mother.”

He said this was so and that he was honored and delighted to have the opportunity of offering them to her.

He took them from the pocket of his doublet and gave them to her. Smiling, she took them. Then he saw her charm. A pretty wench, he thought, but, alas, not a bonny one.

The Cardinal was murmuring to the Queen: “I will relieve Your Majesty of these documents.” Mary handed them to him. “Later,” went on the Cardinal, “if it is Your Majesty’s pleasure, we will go through them together.”

“That is my pleasure,” said the Queen.

Bothwell’s lips tightened. He himself might just as well have handed the documents to the Cardinal. Did she never do anything unless this man allowed her to?

The Queen was smiling at Bothwell. “Pray sit down,” she said. “Here beside me. There is much I wish to hear of Scotland.”

He sat down. She threw a sidelong look at him. That virility alarmed while it fascinated. She was not sure whether she found it attractive or repulsive. With the Cardinal hovering beside her she believed she found it repulsive. She had heard of this Bothwell; he was the successful Lieutenant of the Border and would have been living a wild life. She pictured him, ravishing the towns across the Border, driving the cattle before him, herding the women… like cattle. She had heard of such things. He would be brutal, this man. He made her shiver.

“You have come by way of Denmark,” she said.

“Yes, Your Majesty. It was the wish of the Queen, your mother, that I should visit the Court of King Frederick to make requests of him.”

“She will doubtless have told me of these requests in the letters you bring.”

Bothwell was astounded. Did she know nothing? Was she left entirely in the dark? He had come to warn her of the state of her Scottish realm. He had come to warn her of the claims of Arran, the treachery she might expect from the Bastard, Lord James Stuart; he had come to warn her of the machinations of Elizabeth of England and her minister Cecil. There was an immediate need to appoint a new Regent. Yet she—a silly, simpering girl—seemed to know nothing of these matters. Could it be true that she gave no thought to anything but dancing prettily and writing and reading verses?

God help Scotland with such a queen! Bothwell thought with deep regret and affection of the valiant woman who had recently died after enduring continued hardship, fighting a desperate battle, not only against the English, but against her own rebel lords, while this girl, the real Queen, mimed and danced in French châteaux, making simpering Frenchmen fall in love with her!

Bothwell was about to speak, but the Cardinal forestalled him.

“Your Majesty, my lord Bothwell will be at Court for some time. You are tired now. Retire to your apartments and we will read these letters from your mother, the contents of which I am sure you will wish, above all things, to know, and most speedily. Promise Lord Bothwell that he shall have audience tomorrow. Then you will feel strong enough to hear his news.”

Mary hesitated. Then she said: “Lord Bothwell, please present yourself at this hour tomorrow.”

James bowed. “Your Majesty’s servant.”

The Queen rose and laid her hand on the arm of the Cardinal with whom she went from the chamber.

MARY WAS THINKING of Bothwell while the Cardinal broke the seals of her mothers letters and began to read them aloud to her.

He had made her uneasy. There was a certain insolence in his gaze. She could not complain; he had bowed low enough; he had kissed her hand in the appropriate manner; he had said the right words; but the eyes—that bold glance… how could she describe it? Insolent! It was not one of those passionate looks which she so often received and which she understood meant that the one who gave them longed to be her lover. This man was arrogant and cold and yet in a way he seemed to hint that he too imagined himself making love to her. It was too much to endure. Yet how could she complain?

She had not really known whether she wanted to remain with him or dismiss him. She had chosen to dismiss him because she felt he should know that it was for her to command. That was not entirely true. The Cardinal had intervened, had suggested she should retire because she was tired; and she had obeyed.

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 WINTER 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.