Текст книги "Royal Road to Fotheringhay "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 28 страниц)
Words to make a grown-up person shudder, but to a child of five they were little more than words.
Now she was in a boat and she heard the sound of oars dipping into water. It became suddenly calm and peaceful as though there was no longer the desperate need for haste.
The violent bump of the boat as it touched land awakened her thoroughly. “Where are we?” she cried.
“Hush… hush!” she was told. “Maman is here.” That was her mother talking to her as though she were indeed a baby.
She was taken up and placed in the arms of someone clothed in black. Over his head was a cowl. He might have frightened her had his eyes not been gentle and his voice kind.
“Sleep, little one,” he said. “Sleep on, little Queen. You have come safely to Inchmahome.”
Inchmahome! The melodious word took the place in her dreams of Pinkie Cleugh and blood… murder… rape. Inchmahome… and peace.
IT SEEMED TO MARY that she lived for a long time in the island monastery. At first there was much she missed, but it was not long before her four Marys arrived on the island to bear her company. Lady Fleming stayed with her, and because there was need to comfort her aunt, Mary herself was comforted. Lord Fleming had been killed at the terrible battle of Pinkie Cleugh. He was one of fourteen thousand Scots who had died that day.
Mary wept bitterly. First Beaton’s uncle and now Flem’s father. And both had been killed. There had been no need for either of them to die. “Why,” she demanded angrily of Lady Fleming, “could they not all love each other and be friends?”
“It is the accursed English!” cried Lady Fleming. “They want Scotland for their own. They have killed my Malcolm. I hate the English.”
“But it was not the English who killed Cardinal Beaton,” said Mary.
“They were behind that murder too. They are a heretic people.”
Mary put her arms round her governess and reminded her that she had five sons and there was big James to be Lord Fleming now.
Janet Fleming took the lovely face in her hands and kissed it. “When you grow up,” she said, “many will love you. You have that in you which attracts love. There will be men to love you …”
Janet’s eyes brightened and her sorrow lifted a little, for she could not help knowing that there would still be men to love Janet Fleming too. It was true that she was no longer young but her appeal seemed ageless. She had been born with it and it did not diminish at all. Here in the monastery she would let her grief subside; her wounds would heal and when she again went into the world she would be her jaunty pleasure-loving self, attracting men perhaps because she herself was so easily attracted by them.
So they were able to comfort each other, and the brief rest on the peaceful island was something they were both to remember in the years to come and look back upon with a certain longing.
Mary grew accustomed to the life of the island. She had soon, with her little friends about her, made a miniature court for herself. She was watched with delight—even by the monks—for in her black silk gown, ornamented by the brilliant tartan scarf, held together by the gold agraffe which was engraved with the arms of Scotland and Lorraine, her lovely hair loose about her shoulders, she was a charming sight.
At first the monks in their musty black had not attracted her; she had been startled to come upon them gliding through the cold bare rooms. But when she grew to know them she found a gentleness in them which appealed to her. They answered her only when she spoke to them, but they did not speak even to each other unless it was absolutely necessary.
It was like a world of which she had dreamed—a strange world shut in by granite walls. The bells rang continually, for life on the island in the lake of Menteith was divided into periods, by the bells. Mary went daily with her four friends to the great room with the stained-glass windows; there she prayed to the saints and confessed her sins.
Her curiosity had to be satisfied, and she and the four Marys could not be content until they had wheedled the secret from Lady Fleming.
“Why are we here, Aunt Janet?” asked Mary.
“It is a rest for me… after what I suffered.”
“Did they take me out of bed at midnight for that?” asked Mary scornfully.
“It is because of the English,” said Beaton.
“Hertford’s men came close to the castle,” added Mary. “We heard of that.”
Poor Janet! She could never be discreet. “Well, I do know,” she admitted, “but nothing would prise it from me.” But the five Marys could, and in a short time Janet was saying: “If I tell you, you must never mention it to anyone… anyone at all.”
She admitted that they had been sent to Inchmahome to escape the English. “Your mother has plans for you,” she added.
“What plans?” demanded Mary.
“Plans made with the French, so they say.”
“With my uncles?”
“They send messengers to her continually. There are some, my little Queen, who would like to see you sent to England, but your mother has other plans.”
Lady Fleming could not be induced to say what these plans were, so the five little girls, who knew her well, decided that she did not know and that it was no use pestering her further.
When Mary was in her room, which was as bare as a cell, she knelt before the little altar there, but instead of praying she was thinking about plans with the French.
She rose from her knees and studied the ornament her mother had given her and which she always wore to fasten her scarf. Her mother had explained the significance of the emblems on the ornament. The silver eagles were of Lorraine, the double cross was of Jerusalem; and the lilies were of Anjou and Sicily. This was the emblem of Guise and Lorraine. Her mother had said: “Always remember the emblem when you are afraid or when you are about to do something shameful. It is the emblem of Guise and Lorraine.”
And Guise and Lorraine was France! What had Lady Fleming meant by plans made with the French?
Wherever I go, said Mary to herself, I shall take my four Marys with me. I shall never, never be parted from them.
AFTER A WHILE she grew to love the life of the monastery. There was so much to discover and those black-clad men were so ready to teach. Here she learned to speak and read in French, Spanish and Italian as well as Latin. She could play as she wished on the grounds about the monastery and there was no one to guard her and her little friends. They could go wherever they wished as long as they remained on the island.
Slowly the days passed and it seemed to all the little girls that they lived for a very long time on the island of Inchmahome.
THEN ONE DAY when they were wandering close to the lakes edge they saw men rowing to the island. They ran back to tell Lady Fleming what they had seen. Mary was in a flutter of excitement because she believed that the English had come to take her away.
The Abbot himself came running in consternation to the water’s edge. Mary Fleming had taken the girls into the monastery, but they could not resist watching from a window.
They saw the Abbot was smiling and bowing to the men.
“English!” cried Lady Fleming excitedly. “They are not English. They are Scottish noblemen. Depend upon it they have come to take us home.”
She was right.
Lady Fleming put the cloak about the dainty little figure and called to Flem to bring the brooch which was emblazoned with the arms of Guise and Lorraine.
“Back to something a little more gay, the saints be praised!” said Lady Fleming.
But oddly enough Mary was not sure whether she really wanted to go. She had now so many friends in this quiet retreat. She thought of the quiet common room in which she and the four Marys had so often sat together taking lessons from the brothers; she thought of the freedom of wandering on the island, of the peace and silence which had frightened them at first but which they had grown to love.
She wept when she said good-bye to some of the brothers who had become her favorites; she threw her arms about them in a most unqueenly fashion and buried her face in the musty robes which had formerly repelled her.
“Farewell to you all,” she cried. “Farewell, dear brothers. Farewell, dear Abbot. Farewell, dear Inchmahome.”
She stood waving to them as the boat carried her party across the lake.
Her mother was waiting for her at Stirling Castle. With her were the Lords Lindsay, Livingstone, Montrose and Erskine. And there was another—a stranger.
He was tall and his beard was curled as she had never seen a beard curled before; his hands moved expressively; his eyes flashed and sparkled as they rested on the little Queen.
“This is an emissary from the King of France,” said the Queen-Mother, and as she spoke those words she seemed taller and prouder than ever before. “He comes with greetings from the King and my brothers.”
Mary was enchanted with the newcomer. She decided he was very pretty and unlike any man she had seen before.
He sank to his knees very gracefully, not as the Scottish nobles knelt; he took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Your Majesty’s most humble servant,” he said. He continued to hold her hand.
Then he rose and turned to the Queen-Mother. “Forgive me, Madame,” he said in French, but Mary’s French was good enough to understand him, “I am struck dumb by such enchanting beauty.”
The Queen-Mother was smiling. She called him Monsieur l’Amiral. There was much talk and laughter and the little Queen saw that other strangers had come into the chamber, and they too had curled beards and gay tongues and spoke quickly—far too quickly—in the French tongue.
She retired to her apartment after a while, but no sooner was she there than her mother entered. Mary had never seen her look so excited.
She too talked French, and so rapidly that Mary had to beg her to speak more slowly.
“This will not do,” cried Marie de Guise. “What will your uncles say if you cannot speak French fluently? You must do so before you step for the first time on the soil of France.”
Marie de Guise’s eyes had filled with tears and, in spite of the fact that there were others present, she abandoned ceremony and taking her daughter in her arms she held her tightly.
Then Mary knew that she was to leave for France—not in the distant future—and that these strange men had come to escort her there.
THERE WAS a bustle of preparation; there was a packing of baggage; and all this was done at the utmost speed.
Now and then the Queen-Mother found time to talk to her daughter, to tell her of the wonderful future which was being planned for her. “You are going to my people. The Most Christian King himself will be your father. The Queen of France will be as your mother; and your grandfather, the great Duke of Guise, and your grandmother, who was Antoinette de Bourbon before she became Madame de Guise, will be there, with your uncles, to greet you.”
She had to make this child understand the importance of what was about to happen to her. She was the Queen of Scotland, but a greater throne was coming her way. His Most Christian Majesty was offering her the crown of France through marriage with his son. A great and glorious future was to be hers, and the child would be worthy of it. Surely her beauty must startle even the French.
“Listen to me carefully. The English are close at hand; they have captured some of our towns. They know that our kind friend, the King of France, offers you marriage with his son—and that is the very thing they are anxious shall not take place because they want you for their King Edward. Henri Deux, the King of France has sent ships to Scotland. When we go to Dumbarton you will see those mighty ships, and they have braved the storms and the English fleet to come to us. King Henri is our friend. He is anxious that there shall be great friendship between his country and ours. He has sent these ships to take you back to France.”
“And shall you come with me?”
“I cannot come, my darling. I must stay here. But you will have many of your friends with you. All your little Marys shall go. I shall come to visit you. The King—your new father—will not wish you to be lonely. He wants you to be very happy.”
Mary was too excited to be afraid. She was going to the most beautiful country in the world. But when she looked into her mother’s face she was immediately sad. Poor Maman, she would stay behind. Poor Maman, who must also lose her daughter.
Mary threw her arms about her mother’s neck.
“I will not go, dearest Maman. I will stay with you.”
“That is nonsense, my child.”
“But you will be unhappy if I go. I would rather never see France than make you unhappy.”
“Why, you foolish child, it makes me the happiest Queen in the world to know you go to France. It is what I wish for you. I shall come to see you soon. The King says I must. He is very kind.”
“I wonder what the Dauphin is like.”
“François? He is the same age as yourself… or almost. Your birthday is in December and his in January. Some queens have to marry men old enough to be their grandfathers and others have to marry those young enough to be their children.”
Mary began to laugh. “That must be very funny.”
“Royal marriages are never funny.”
“No, Maman” said Mary seriously.
“The Dauphin is not very strong. You will have to be careful not to tire him in your play.”
“Yes, Maman?
Already Mary had decided that she would make the care of the Dauphin her special task.
HER MOTHER took her on board the ship. With them were the four Marys—now very solemn and demure in their heavy capes. Lady Fleming bustled about them, her lovely face flushed with excitement, forgetful of her widowhood, keenly aware of the admiration directed toward herself even when it came from the humblest sailors.
The Queen-Mother made her daughter walk before her onto the King’s galley. Behind them came all those who were to form part of the little Queen’s entourage in her new country. There would be so many of them, Mary thought, that it would be almost like being at home.
As they stepped aboard, accompanied by Admiral Villegaignon, a tall man came toward them and knelt before the Queen so that his eyes were on a level with hers. Mary knew him, for he was the Sieur de Brézé, the French King’s ambassador at the Scottish Court.
“Your Majesty’s servant,” he said. “My master has commanded me to act as your French governor until I have conducted you safely to his presence.”
She answered in her high piping French which, with its faint Scottish accent, delighted all these Frenchmen: “Rise, Monsieur de Brézé. It gives me great pleasure to greet you.”
She held out her hand, from the wrist of which the circles of infant fat had now almost, but not quite, disappeared. He kissed it, and again she was aware of that admiration which all the French seemed to show when they looked her way.
He stood up and she said: “What does this mean? What will you do as my French governor? Will you teach me?”
“There is only one thing I wish to teach Your Majesty, and that is that all France will take one look at you and fall in love with you.”
It was extravagant talk such as she was unaccustomed to hear, and she was a little bewildered, but delighted all the same. It was true, she was sure, that the French were all that she had been led to believe.
Her mother was smiling, so her French must have passed the test.
Now the Queen-Mother spoke. “Monsieur de Brézé, I shall wish to know all that happens during the journey. I shall wish to know as soon as possible that my daughter has arrived safely in France.”
He bowed gracefully. “Madame, I will protect your daughter with my life. Messengers shall be dispatched to you; they shall reach you if they have to sink every English ship to do so.”
How vehemently they spoke, thought Mary. How they smiled! How their eyes flashed and how their hands moved with their voices! Strange men! Monsieur de Brézé smelled of violets, or was it roses? His golden beard curled enchantingly. She admired him every bit as much as he admired her.
How happy she could have been if she had not had to part from her mother! But Queen Marie was smiling bravely, although at the last she let affection triumph over ceremony. She held her daughter tightly in her arms, and Mary saw the tears glistening in her eyes.
“The saints preserve you,” were her last words. “Remember all I have taught you. Never forget that you are a queen, my dearest, and all will be well.”
“Good-bye, dearest Maman.”
“I shall see you soon, I feel sure. And now… good-bye.”
The Queen-Mother was escorted off the ship. She stood on the shore gazing after the French fleet, at the fluttering standard bearing the arms of Valois. How small the child looked, wrapped in her heavy cloak, her eyes fixed on the mother she was leaving behind her.
Am I right in letting her go? anxiously wondered Marie de Guise in those moments. What will become of my little one? The King has promised that she shall be as his daughter, but how much can Kings be trusted? What of the Court of France? Is it the right place in which to bring up a child? It was scarcely the most virtuous of courts, but she had heard from her relations that there had been a tightening of morals since the death of François. Was there still that perpetual lovemaking, seeming so decorous and charming—scented notes bearing verses of poetic merit, delicate compliments overlaying orgies and promiscuity like a gossamer veil? Henri was more sérieux than his father had been, and Diane de Poitiers was his faithful mistress, but was Henri’s Court so very different from that of his father?
And Mary—so warm-hearted, so eager to love all, so French in many ways—how would she fare in such a Court? Was it right to pass her over to voluptuous Paris? Was that better than sending her to murderous London? But of course it was! In France were her own family, and they were close to the throne. The house of Guise and Lorraine would look after its own.
Marie de Guise stood erect, fighting back tears while the ships set sail; she watched them until she could see them no more. Then she returned to her apartments in Dumbarton and spent long hours on her knees praying that the royal ship and its escort might escape both perilous storms and the English.
IT WAS a wonderful journey. The wind rose and buffeted the ship, but the five Marys, finding themselves free from restraint, first walked sedately about the deck, then ran, calling to each other, taking off their satin snoods and laughing as the wind caught their hair and flung it back across their faces.
Mary’s half brothers—Lord James who was Prior of St. Andrews, Lord John who was Prior of Coldingham, and Lord Robert who was Prior of Holyrood—stood together watching the children.
“Jamie! Jamie!” called Mary. “Is it not wonderful to be at sea, eh, Robert, eh John?”
The brothers smiled at their little sister, but there was a brooding look in the eyes of Lord James. He could not forget that he, a young man who was strong and healthy, was set aside because he was a bastard. He was merely a rich beneficiary of the Church instead of a king.
The Lords Livingstone and Erskine paced the deck in quiet conversation.
“It will not do to trust them too far,” Livingstone was saying.
“Indeed not,” agreed Erskine.
“Artus de Brézé—ambassador and now the Queen’s governor—what manner of man is he? A jewelled perfumed dummy!”
“The Fleming woman seems to be taken with him and cannot hide it even under the eyes of her son—and she but recently a widow.”
Artus de Brézé was in his turn laughing at the Scotsmen. Such gaunt features, such ruddy skins. Paris would be amused with them. Nor were the women too handsome. The little girls were charming, especially the Reinette. She was someone whom the French would appreciate—a beauty and aware of it already. But the women—with the exception of Lady Fleming—were of small interest. There would be little trouble on their account.
He wondered whether he could seduce the red-haired lady during the voyage. It would be rather piquant. At night with the darkness all about them, on the high seas, in danger of an English enemy sighting them at any moment. A Scot and a king’s daughter at that! Very amusing! thought the Sieur de Brézé.
Now the little one was standing beside him.
“Monsieur!”
It was a pleasure to hear her speak; it was a delight to look into the upturned face at those long eyes thickly lashed, that soft mouth which was meant for tenderness. He could not help but picture her, say, in ten years’ time.
“I am at Your Majesty’s service. You must not cease to call on me at any hour of the day and night. It will be my pleasure to see that your smallest wish is granted.”
She laughed, showing her pretty teeth. “Ah, Monsieur de Brézé, you say such nice things.”
“I say only that which the beauty of Your Majesty impels and inspires me to say.”
“Monsieur de Brézé, if you would lift me up I could sit on the rail, and that is what I wish to do.”
She was light, and she laughed as he lifted her.
“Why do you regard me in that way, Monsieur?”
“Your Majesty is an enchantress. I see it already.”
“What is an enchantress?”
“It is what you are and what you will increasingly become.”
“Is it a good thing for a queen to be?”
“It is a good thing for anyone to be—man or woman, queen or commoner. Tell me, what do you think of us Frenchmen?”
“I love you all. And do you think the King of France will love me?”
“He could not fail to do so.”
“And the Queen?”
“The Queen also. The King has said: ‘The little Queen shall be as my daughter.’ He says that before he has seen you; but when his eyes fall on you, my little Queen, he will say much more. Where is your governess?”
“The sea has made her ill and she will not show herself.”
“You must tell her that I am desolate.”
“Desolate, Monsieur? But you look so happy.”
“I am desolate to know that she suffers. Will you tell her that?”
“Yes. Put me down and I will tell her at once.”
When she was on her feet she retreated a pace or two. She said with a smile: “I shall tell her that you say you are desolate, and look so happy when you say it.”
She started to walk away.
“Your Majesty,” he called. “I will explain.”
She stopped, turned and regarded him gravely. Then she said demurely: “My mother and my guardians have told me that we must quickly learn the ways of the French … all of us.”
He watched her skipping away. So beautiful! So young! And already with some knowledge of the ways of the world.
THE FRENCH GALLEYS were in sight of land, and the dangerous journey was nearly over. Mary stood with Lady Fleming, her three brothers and the four Marys, watching the land as they approached it. None of them was more relieved than Lady Fleming that the journey was over. She declared she had come near to dying. So ill had she been that she had implored Monsieur de Villegaignon to let her go ashore when they were within a few miles of the coast of England; she had felt then that she would rather die at the hands of the English than become a victim of the sea. Monsieur de Villegaignon had forgotten his French manners and peremptorily told her that she should not land; she should go to France or drown by the way. What a mercy it had been that they had brought Scottish navigators with them. These men, accustomed to stormy weather and rocky coasts, had been invaluable during the voyage.
And now, praise the saints, thought Lady Fleming, the peril was well-nigh over.
Mary was unable to feel anything but excitement. She had almost forgotten the terror of seeing English ships on the horizon. It seemed a long time ago when her brothers had stood about her with Lords Erskine and Livingstone, determined to defend her should the need arise. The saints had answered their prayers, and the wind had turned in their favor, so that they were able to speed across the rough waters until the English dropped below the horizon. Now here they were in sight of France, and their galley was drawing in to the little Brittany port of Roscoff.
As soon as she stepped ashore Mary was made aware of the magnitude of the welcome which was to be given to her.
The little port was festooned with gay banners, and the people had come for miles round to line the shore and shout a welcome to la Reinette. In this they were obeying the orders of the King, who had said: “Welcome the little Queen of Scots as though she were already my daughter.”
And when these people saw the little girl—so small and dainty—with her four attendants the same age as herself, in their fur-lined capes, they were enchanted.
“Vive la petite Reine!” they cried; and Mary, sensing their admiration, smiled and bowed so prettily that they cried out that she was delightful, this little girl who had come to them from the savages.
The progress across France began. From Roscoff the procession made its way to Nantes, Mary sometimes riding on a small horse, sometimes carried in a litter; and each town through which they passed had its welcome for her. Accustomed to the more restrained greetings of her own countrymen and-women, Mary was enchanted by the gaiety of these French who were so ready to drink to her health and make a fête day of her short stay in their towns or villages.
At Nantes a gaily decorated barge was awaiting her and she, in what proved to be a glorious river pageant, sailed with her entourage up the river Loire through the villages and vineyards of Anjou and Touraine, where the people lined the riverbank to call a welcome to her. When she left the barge and went ashore in her litter, the people crowded around her, their eyes flashing, laughter bubbling from their lips, and she thought them the merriest people she had ever seen. How could she be homesick for those castles which had been nothing more than prisons! Here the people were not only gay but friendly. It was an informal pageant in which the laborers from the vineyard, the tillers of the soil, and plump peasant women, joined merrily.
She had never witnessed anything like it and she was as delighted with the French as the French were with her.
But when they left the barge at Tours, the journey became more of a royal progress, for waiting to greet her was her grandfather Claude Duc de Guise, and her grandmother, the Duchesse, was with him—she who before her marriage had been Antoinette de Bourbon.
These great personages received her with much ceremony, but when they were alone her grandmother took the child on her knee and embraced her. “You are indeed a pretty child,” she said; and her eyes gleamed, as did those of the Duke her husband, for the fortunes of the mighty house of Guise and Lorraine rested on this dainty child’s shoulders.
“I shall write and tell your uncle François that he will love you,” went on her grandmother.
“Is my uncle François not here then, Grandmother?”
“No, my child, he is much occupied with the affairs of the country. So are his brothers. But they will be delighted, all of them, to hear what a dear little girl you are.”
Her grandfather talked to her too. He reminded her that while she was Queen of Scotland she was also a member of the noble house of Guise and Lorraine.
“We stand together, my little one. One for all and all for each. That is the rule of our family. Soon you will be meeting your uncles. Your uncle Charles will keep you under his wing.”
Mary listened gravely. She had heard most of it already from her mother.
The Duchesse traveled with the party by river to Orléans where they disembarked and continued by road through Chartres.
“You will be housed,” the Duchesse told Mary, “with the royal children—the Dauphin and his little sister Elizabeth. The little Princess Claude and Prince Louis are babies still. The King has decided that you shall live at the palace of Saint-Germain as soon as it is sweetened. Meanwhile you will stay nearby at Carrières.”
“When shall I see the King and Queen?” asked Mary.
“Ah, you go too fast. The Court is at Moulins, so to begin with you will make the acquaintance of the royal children. The King wishes the meeting to be informal. You understand, my child? The King loves children and thinks tenderly of them—not only his own but others also. He has decided that you shall come to know the children with a complete absence of ceremony. He is anxious that you should love each other. You are to share a room with Madame Elisabeth. She is only three and a half. He hopes that you will be particularly fond of the Dauphin.”
“I shall, I know I shall. I am going to take great care of him.”
The Duchesse laughed. “Ah, my little one, you have the proud spirit of a Guise. So the Queen of a savage land will take great care of the heir of France, eh?”
“But he is younger than I,” protested Mary. “And I hear that he is not strong.”
Madame de Guise patted her shoulder. “You are right, my child. You must take every care of him, for on him will depend your future… and that of others. Let it not be too obvious care. Let it be loving tenderness. I know you will be a credit to us. There is another matter. The King is pleased to allow your four little friends to be with you, but he wants them to go away after the first few days at Carrières. No! Do not be afraid. The King has heard of your love for them and he would not for the world part you from them. But for a little while he wishes you to be alone in the royal nursery with François and Elisabeth. He wants no other children to come between you for a little while.”
“It will only be for a little while?”
“For a very little while. You need have no fear, dear child. You will be happy in our royal nurseries.”
“The King is a very good king,” said Mary. “The Queen … is she beautiful?”
“All queens are beautiful,” said the Duchesse lightly.
“Does she too say that she wants me to love François and Elisabeth?”
“The Queen agrees with the King in all things.”
Mary was intelligent. She noticed that the manner of her grandmother changed when she mentioned the Queen of France. Why? wondered Mary.
She was longing to see the Dauphin and his little sister; she was longing to see the King; but oddly enough, as she explained to her Marys, she felt more curious about the Queen.
