Текст книги "Royal Road to Fotheringhay "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 28 страниц)
“The Queen and I, as I told your brother, consider that as yet Mary and François are too young.”
“The Queen and Your Majesty are as usual right. Ah… these little kings-to-be… these queens! Sometimes they must be married before their time. How fortunate it is that our Dauphin is affianced to one whom he has loved almost from her cradle. It is a fate, Sire, which befalls few of any royal house.”
“That’s true, Cardinal. I would wish to see them married but I am loath to spoil that happy and tender comradeship which warms my heart every time I see them together.”
“Your Majesty is not only their devoted King; he is their beloved father.”
“That is how I would have it, Cardinal.”
“And that is how they would have it, I know. I hope Your Majesty will consider it wise to have the children married before you need the help of Scotland next year against the English … as you assuredly will.”
The King was silent. What the Cardinal said was true. He himself was a soldier of some ability and he knew that he might shortly need the help of Scotland. The marriage would make sure of that.
He continued silent and the Cardinal went on: “Your Majesty, I have drafted an agreement which, if signed, would bring great good to France. It is premature, I know, and could not, of course, be signed by Mary Stuart until the marriage is certain; but thinking of the good of our country, and the depression we felt after Saint Quentin …”
“What is this agreement?” asked the King.
“If she could be induced to sign it, it would give her kingdom to the crown of France should she die without heirs; she would also transfer her rights to the crown of England to Your Majesty, or your successors, until a million gold crowns had been paid to France as an indemnity for those monies which France had paid out for the defense of Scotland.”
The King gasped. “But… how can she sign such a document? She has no power to do so without the consent of the Parliament and the Regent.”
“She is the Queen of Scotland. Her signature on the document would make it valid.”
“Would she sign such a document? Poor child, would she understand what she was doing?”
“I will explain it to her.”
The King was uneasy yet desperately tempted. He must be a king first now, and father second. Scotland was an unruly country; it was an unhappy, a tortured country; how much happier it would be, completely depending on France!
“She would sign,” said the Cardinal softly. “She would be only too happy to give you these rights. She loves you. You are her beloved father. She would be only too happy to repay something of all you have done for her.”
The King nodded. The crown of Scotland was being offered to him and his heirs. He could not turn away from it. The temptation was too great.
“I am sure,” said the smooth-voiced Cardinal, “that when she knows she is to be in very truth your daughter, gladly will she put her name to the documents which I shall place before her.”
“I think,” said the King, “that as they love each other and as they have known each other so long, it would please them to know that they are to be married.”
“Soon,” added the Cardinal. “I will break this wonderful news to my niece. I am impatient to witness her joy.”
“And I will break the news to my son. I know he will be the happiest boy in Fontainebleau this day.”
So the King smothered his conscience; the Cardinal—having none—was spared such pains.
THE CARDINAL came to conduct his niece to that chamber wherein the King was waiting for them with Cardinal de Sens, who was the Keeper of the Seals of France, in attendance.
The Cardinal had explained to Mary that this was merely a formality. All she need do was sign her name.
“What paper is it, Uncle?” she asked. “Should I not read it before I sign? You have always said that I should read everything before signing.”
“There is no need to tire yourself. It is such a bore—this language of the lawyers. I can tell you all you want to know. It is a little matter concerning Scotland’s debt to the King. You see, His Majesty and the French have given much money for the defense of Scotland, and you, as the Queen of that land, are going to sign this paper promising that you will arrange that, when Scotland is able to do so, the King is repaid.”
“That is what I would wish,” said Mary.
“Well, that is all it is.”
“But it seems such a solemn occasion for such a small thing, does it not?”
“Remember you are a queen, my child, and now that you are growing up there will be many occasions when some formality, which may seem unnecessary to you, will have to be carried out.”
Mary smiled and allowed the Cardinal to lead her to that chamber in Fontainebleau, and there, with the April sunshine streaming through the windows, put her signature to the documents which gave away that which she had no right to give, and which, although she was a girl not yet sixteen years of age and innocent of wrongdoing, brought great dishonor to her name.
MARY WAS being dressed for her wedding. About her were her four Marys and several attendants who were helping, their eyes bright with admiration and excitement.
Now she stood in her bridal dress; it was so heavy that she could scarcely stand, for its white damask was covered in jewels. Her royal mantle and train of bluish grey velvet was decorated with pearls; her golden crown was studded with pearls and diamonds, sapphires and rubies, and the centerpiece was a hanging carbuncle which alone was worth five hundred thousand crowns.
“You are the most beautiful bride there has ever been!” cried Flem; and the others agreed.
Mary laughed gleefully as she touched the priceless necklace she was wearing. The people in the streets would cheer her as she went from the palace of the Archbishop of Paris—where she, with the royal family, had spent the night—to the Cathedral of Notre Dame. They loved her because she was their charming Reinette, and her marriage to the Dauphin gave them such a show as they had never witnessed before.
François was happy too. He was not very nervous, he had told her, although he would have been terrified if he had had to marry anyone else. The thought of Charles worried Mary a little. He was so sullen; he seemed almost murderous and in deadly earnest when he declared he longed to marry her.
It was a pity that the Commissioners from Scotland had come to see her married, for they reminded her that she was Queen of a kingdom very different from this one. Their odd speech was so strange to her, though she supposed she herself had once spoken it. Their clothes were rough and lacking in elegance; they were suspicious of the French, and it had to be admitted that the French did laugh at them and mock them when they were not present. Mary was a little ashamed of her rough countrymen.
She was worried too about her half brother, Lord James, who had come with them. He had changed since she last saw him; outwardly he was as friendly as ever, but he seemed to be watching her furtively all the time; and she knew that James was among those covenanters who were in league with John Knox.
She was not to trust her brother, the Cardinal had warned her. She was to tell no one of the documents she had signed a short while ago. They were of no great importance, of course, but the Cardinal wished them not to be mentioned.
Mary had for years obeyed the Cardinal without question and she did so now.
But all her uneasiness vanished as she walked along the gallery which had been set up between the palace of the Archbishop of Paris and the Cathedral of Notre Dame.
The King—magnificently jeweled—held Mary’s right hand as they walked along the gallery, while the Duke of Lorraine held her left. Mary’s train was borne by young ladies who could scarcely lift it, so heavy was it with the jewels which adorned it. Behind them came Catherine the Queen and Jeanne the Queen of Navarre, followed by the ladies of the Court in order of precedence.
The King of Navarre walked with the Dauphin, and behind them came the two Princes—Charles, still glowering and sullen, and Edouard Alexandre full of gaiety because he had never worn such jewels as he wore that day.
At the door of the cathedral the procession halted and Mary was brought to stand beside the Dauphin.
Henri Deux took a ring from his finger and gave it to the Cardinal of Bourbon who was waiting to receive it, and there, under the blue sky, so that the people of Paris might witness the marriage ceremony, Mary Queen of Scots was married to François, Dauphin of France.
She smiled at her bridegroom reassuringly, not forgetting even at that moment that he might be in need of comfort. She knew that the crowds and the shouting would make his head ache. She knew that his jeweled garments would weigh him down and make him very tired.
He held her hand tightly and looked at her continually as though to reassure himself that the beautiful vision, arrayed in such glorious apparel, was after all his beloved Mary.
When the ceremony was over they returned to the Archbishop’s palace and sat down to the banquet which had been prepared for them in the grand hall. Mary ate ravenously, for she was very hungry; she urged François to eat, and he did so, saying that although there were so many people about them and the glitter of jewels was almost blinding, and two gentlemen stood behind Mary all the time they ate, holding the crown royal over her head, they were together; they loved each other and everything was the same except that they were married.
Afterward there was dancing. Mary delighted to dance and was enchanted when the King chose her as his partner. Her hand rested in his as they turned slowly in the stately pavanne.
“So you are happy?” asked the King.
“Yes, dearest Papa.”
“Then I am happy too. No one in Paris who saw you this day will ever forget you.”
“I shall never forget this day.”
“You and François should be happy. You do not yet know how fortunate you are.”
Mary had caught sight of François who was dancing with his mother. He looked very uneasy. She wished that she could have gone to him, to tell him not to be nervous. The King followed her gaze.
“You will always take care of him, will you not, Mary?” he said very seriously.
“Always, Papa.”
“He will need your care, my dear, and I know I can trust you to give it to him. The saints bless you and keep you.”
“I am happy to be the Dauphine, Papa, but I hope I shall never be Queen of France, for I could not be that while you live—so I would wish never to be.”
“My dear child,” he said, “I love you very much.”
By four o’clock in the afternoon the ball at the episcopal palace was over, but the celebrations were to continue. The whole company crossed the Seine to the Palais de Justice. Mary was carried in a litter of gold and silver, and the people shouted to her as she passed. “Long live the Queen-Dauphine!” they cried. And to each other: “But she is beautiful. What a contrast to the Italian woman!” Catherine did not seem to care what they said of her. She accepted humiliations from the Parisians as she did from her husband, with a resigned and almost patient smile.
How the people cheered the King when he rode by on his magnificently caparisoned warhorse! But the loudest cheers of all, some noticed, were for the man dressed in frosted cloth of gold, ablaze with gems, the man of action whom no amount of fine clothes or jewels could disguise. They knew him at once; his tall figure attracted immediate attention as did the scar on his cheek. “Vive le Balafré! Long life to the great Duke of Guise!” shouted the crowds. He knew how to win the hearts of the people. They did not forget that, during the celebrations when the mob had struggled to see the youthful pair but were prevented from doing so by the fine folk on the dais, he had ordered those fine folk to stand aside that the people’s view might not be obstructed. “God bless the Duke! God bless the hero of Metz and the saviour of Calais!”
And so the procession of litters, coaches and prancing horses came to the great hall of the Palais de Justice where a grand supper was waiting, to be followed by such a ball, such masques and mummeries, games and pastimes as were rarely seen even at the Court of France. With relish Mary ate of the dishes which were set before her. This was the happiest day of her life, she told François. He smiled and said that he was happy to be her husband but he would be happier still when they could be alone together.
He laughed with Mary at the children who, led by young Henri de Guise, rode in on hobby horses; each horse—and there were twenty-five of them—was pulled across the hall by a lackey, but the horses were so beautifully decorated with trappings of cloth of gold and silver that they looked more beautiful than real horses. The Princes, looking very charming in their suits of cloth of gold, came to a halt before the bridal pair and sang in praise of marriage and this royal marriage in particular.
Only the Scottish guests were ill at ease. It was clear that they thought the laughter, the dancing, the lavish display of jewels, the fulsome compliments and the soft looks exchanged between the men and women a strange mode of behavior. They were unable to join in the gaiety and stood apart about Lord James, as though to be ready to protect themselves if the need arose, watching the strange antics of the French through sullen and suspicious eyes.
The peak of the evening was reached with the appearance of the galleons which glided over the floor of the ballroom, the silver gauze sails filled by an artificial breeze; and as the floor cloth had been painted to represent waves, the effect had a certain realism. Lackeys led the ships to the table at which the royal ladies sat, and in the first of these ships the King was disclosed seated on the deck in a chair of state beside which was an empty chair. The King reached for Mary’s hand and helped her onto the deck that she might sit beside him. In the next ship was the Dauphin who had been warned he must select his mother to sit beside him; the Prince of Condé, in the next, chose the Duchess of Guise; the Duke of Lorraine followed and chose the Princess Claude; the King of Navarre chose his own wife; and the ships went gracefully down the ballroom over the painted floor cloth to the delight of all who saw them, and the immense pride of the Duke of Guise who had organized the pageantry.
Later Mary and François sat side by side listening to the poems of Ronsard and du Bellay; and all those poems—some set to music—were in praise of the King of France and the newly married pair and of the joy this nion of the two countries would bring to them.
“Mary,” whispered François wearily, “will it never end?”
She pressed his hand and looked down into his pale face. Poor little ridegroom! He was so tired. He was longing for it to be over, but the bride as wishing it could last for the rest of her life.
THEY LAY TOGETHER in the marriage bed divested of their glittering wedding garments.
François was holding her hand tightly. “I should be so afraid, Mary, if it were anyone but you.”
“So should I,” said Mary, “if it were anyone but you.”
The Dauphin laughed happily. Mary knew just how to set him at ease. If he was nervous, so was she. How lucky he was to have her for his wife!
“I shall grow stronger, Mary,” he said. “I’ll be like the Duke, your uncle. I will have all Paris shouting for me, and a scar on my cheek. I’ll be like my father, quiet and strong. Oh, Mary, how lucky you are! You don’t have to be like anybody but yourself.”
“Nor do you, François,” she said.
“Mary, I love you so.”
“I love you too, François.”
“Whatever we have to do … it will be all right, won’t it?”
“Yes, François. But don’t worry. Go to sleep now.”
She could see that he was almost asleep. His lids were pressing down over his eyes. He nestled closer to her and she held him in her arms protectively.
“I am so glad, Mary,” he murmured, “so glad to be married to you.”
Then he fell asleep.
FOUR
THE KING HAD DECREED THAT THE HONEYMOON SHOULD be spent in the lovely old château, built by his father François Premier, at Villers-Cotterets. So to this château went François and Mary, accompanied by only a few of their attendants, that they might enjoy each other’s company in quiet seclusion.
These were the happiest weeks of Francois’s life. The days seemed long and full of sunshine. He would lie on the grassy lawns near the fountains and listen to Mary’s reading to him; she read so beautifully. Sometimes she composed verses about their happiness; sometimes they rode in the forest together. It was quite different, riding almost alone with Mary, from riding with the company which always surrounded him when he was at Court. They would walk their horses under the trees or gallop side by side over the grassy stretches.
At Villers-Cotterets he learned not to be afraid of horses. Mary showed him what loving, gentle creatures they were. They were like herself, she said, eager to serve him.
What enchanting things Mary said! And how happy he was in her company! She made him forget that he was a sickly boy; she made him feel that he was a man.
To his relief their marriage had not been consummated. He was glad of that. He felt unhappy when he remembered that it would have to be one day; he was so uncertain and he sensed that Mary was also, and that she was glad that everything would be as it had been before their marriage, except that she was Dauphine now and they could be together night and day.
How good it was to be away from everybody who alarmed him! His mother was at Les Tournelles with the Court, and that seemed far away. There was another whom he was beginning to fear as much as his mother, another who seemed to be constantly watching him in a manner that was sinister and subtle. This was Mary’s uncle, the Cardinal of Lorraine.
Those sunny days were marred slightly because Mary was not feeling well. She had pains and a cough. In her childhood she had been a healthy girl but later certain weaknesses had begun to show themselves. She had a good appetite—perhaps too good, for she was sometimes ill after eating; and she was subject to fainting fits.
Then came a visitor to the honeymoon château. When the Dauphin saw who it was he froze with a horror for which he could really find no reason; but Mary ran forward eagerly to greet her uncle.
The Cardinal embraced both children.
“It is a secret visit,” he said. “I could not resist it. I wished to see how my dear children were enjoying their honeymoon. And when I heard that my dearest Mary was unwell, I found the desire to make the journey irresistible.” The Cardinal looked at her anxiously. Her skin was of waxy pallor like the petal of the magnolia blossom; it was attractive, thought the Cardinal, but not a sign of robust health. As he had said to his brother, the Duke, when he had heard of Mary’s illness, it was a terrifying thought that the power of their house depended on the lives of two frail children.
He told his brother that he had had a secret conference with the Dauphin’s doctors and had forced them to admit that the likelihood of the boy’s reaching the age of twenty was very remote.
Mary’s illness and the reports from the doctors were the reasons for the Cardinals intrusion on their honeymoon.
He knew the Dauphin and he knew Mary. The Dauphin was a frightened boy; he was so weak and sickly that he would have no normal impulses. As for Mary, one day she would be a passionate woman. The Cardinal was fully aware of that. He thought it was the secret of that immense attraction which was felt by almost every man who came into contact with her. Her expression was gentle; hers was a tender beauty; yet her dormant sensuality was ready to be roused, and it was this readiness which made all men who set eyes on her, long—subconsciously perhaps—to be that one who should kindle the fire. Her reserve, upheld by her great dignity, was like a fine gauze covering the intensely passionate nature. If the gauze could be removed the true Mary would be exposed—eager, voluptuous, abandoned. Passion would sweep away her dignity. The woman in her would make her forget she was a queen. This connoisseur of human frailty, this man who had experienced every sensation, understood Mary completely.
It was his task to keep the gauze intact. Only he had lifted the corner to peep beneath, and then dropped it quickly. He was too old and wise to let his emotions stand in the way of his ambition. Mary must be handled with the greatest care. She must never know herself as a woman, if there was any risk that such knowledge might come between her and her duty to the house of Guise. He had fancied that Henri de Montmorency might, in due course, have stripped Mary of her queenly dignity, of her innocence and her ignorance, and found the woman beneath. That was why he had—as he so well knew how to do—made the Montmorency repulsive to her.
That had not been difficult. He had formed Mary’s mind; he had watched over her. His relationship with her had been his great delight. It gave him more satisfaction than any of those obviously erotic entertainments which he devised from time to time. Mary must remain his guileless niece. Yet it was necessary for her to taste the fruit of the tree of knowledge, for it was imperative to the house of Guise that the Dauphin and Mary should have an heir. Yet he himself, when he had been determined that she should not fall to the house of Montmorency, that great enemy of the house of Guise, had shown her how bitter that fruit could be. He had made her turn shuddering away; that was why the task which now lay before him was such a delicate one.
He listened in an avuncular manner to Mary’s account of the pleasures of the château. He heard about Francois’s prowess with his new horse. Then he patted Mary’s cheek and said that it grieved him to see her not as well as when they had last been together. He wished her to rest and insisted on her lying down.
“Not now you have come!” she protested.
“Because I have come! I will not have this hearty husband of yours tiring you.”
François could not help feeling rather pleased to be referred to as the vigorous one. Mary saw his quick smile which was replaced immediately by his look of concern for Mary.
Mary said: “We did ride rather far yesterday. It was a little too far… for me.”
“Then you shall rest now, and François shall take me to the stables and show me his horses.”
Mary agreed. She was pleased because on other occasions when her uncle had been present, François had sent out distress signals begging not to be left alone with the imposing Cardinal. It was pleasant to feel that François was less afraid since their marriage, and that he was beginning to be fond of Uncle Charles.
When Mary had left them, the Cardinal smiled at the boy. His smile was warm, and affectionately and successfully masked the contempt he felt for the stripling.
“You… you would wish to see the stables?” said the Dauphin timorously.
“Why, yes… yes,” said the Cardinal. “We will go alone.”
As he admired the horses he made himself so agreeable that François began to think he had been rather foolish to be afraid; but when they had left the stables and were walking on the grounds about the château, the Cardinal said: “I trust you are being a good husband to Mary.”
“I love her,” said the Dauphin. “I would die for her.”
“She will need you to do more than die for her.”
“I … I would do all that she wished.”
“Poor Mary, she is a little sad.”
“Oh, no. She is happy. She says so. She says that this is the happiest time she has ever known. She is happy because of our marriage.”
“She was happy thinking of marrying you. I am not sure that she is happy now.”
“I … I do not understand.”
The Cardinal smiled. “You have given Mary a fine title; you have made her Dauphine of France. But there is more to a marriage than that. What Mary needs is a lover. She needs a child.”
The Dauphin flushed scarlet and did not know where to look. He was near to tears. He knew that he had been right to fear the Cardinal who had brought discord into this Eden.
The Cardinals long mouth sneered. “Tell me,” he said, “I am right, am I not, when I say that Mary has been disappointed in her lover?”
“Mary does not want…”
“Mary does not want! Of course she wants!”
“But she said…”
“Holy Virgin, have you been such a laggard in love as to ask her what she wants in the matter?” The Cardinal laughed aloud. “Your grandfather, great François, would rise in his grave and come to you with a horsewhip if he knew. You have betrayed the honor of France and the Valois.”
“But if we wish … if we do not want…”
“Poor Mary! So I now understand why she is sick. She is pining. Holy Mother of God! Holy saints! Listen to the boy. He is a poor impotent weakling who begs his wife not to make any demands on his manhood. My boy, all France will reject you. Are you a Frenchman then? Are you the heir of France? Now I know why Mary is sad. Now I know why she pines and droops. She was promised marriage, and she has been given… what? I know not. I dare not think. My poor niece! My poor, poor niece!”
“How… how… dare you!” stammered François. “Remember you speak to the Dauphin.”
“Remember it! I would to God I could forget it. I would I did not belong to this land, the heir of which is a lily-livered timorous girl, masquerading as a man.”
“I … I will tell the King.”
“I beg of you, do not. Do not bring down sorrow on his silver hairs. Do not bring shame to his royal crown. Do not let him know that he has fathered an unnatural monster with whom the most beautiful girl in all France has been unfortunate enough to marry.”
“You have come here to torment me then!”
The Cardinal seized the boys arm. His face was a mask of piety as he raised his eyes to the sky. “No, my son. I have come here to see that you do your duty, not only to my niece but to your ancestors.”
The Dauphins face quivered. “I… I…”
The Cardinal released him and laid an arm about his shoulders. “My dear boy,” he said gently, “my beloved Dauphin, I have been harsh. Sometimes one must be cruel to be kind. I wish to help you. I know how young you are and that you have not had the good health of some of your companions. You have not roamed the countryside with them and partaken in their manly sports and pastimes. My dearest boy, believe me, I wish to help you. I am your confessor, your priest. It is my place to help you. This marriage must be consummated without delay. It is your duty.” He laughed gently. “Ah, that from which you shrink will give you great joy. Do you remember when you first mounted a horse? You were afraid then. The ground seemed so far away. You were terrified that you would fall. In your heart you hoped that you would never have to ride again. But now you are glad you learned to ride. So it will be in this matter. If you are frightened, if you run away from your duty, you will be ashamed for the rest of your life. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” said the Dauphin.
The Cardinal pressed his shoulder warmly. “I knew that you would. You will grow strong and noble. You will be a man, a worthy successor to your father.”
They returned to the palace.
“Do not mention to Mary what I have said,” warned the Cardinal. “That would be folly. It would not please her to know that it had been necessary to force her husband to his duty.”
The Dauphins face was set and determined. He was no longer the happy bridegroom. A duty lay before him, the execution of which frightened him.
The Cardinal saw his niece before he left. He did not intend to stay. He never made the mistake of overemphasis. If, when the honeymoon was over, the marriage had not been consummated, he would have to consider other methods. What he had done so far would suffice and was, he felt sure, almost certain to succeed.
It had been the wish of the King that the young people should be left entirely to themselves. The King was sentimental where children were concerned, and he remembered the trials of his own early marriage. As for the Queen, she had no wish for the marriage to be consummated, but the Cardinal believed that her wishes were not founded on sentiment.
The consummation of the marriage was vital to the house of Guise; therefore that consummation should take place.
“And it shall!” mused the Cardinal, as he rode away from Villers-Cotterets. “I have injected some manhood into that ungainly mass of corrupting flesh which calls itself Dauphin of France. I am only sorry that my darling should have been given such an unworthy partner in her first excursion into the delights of the flesh.”
THE KING came down to Villers-Cotterets. He had heard that Mary had been ill and that the Dauphin was less happy than he had been on his arrival.
The King came without ceremony, riding there on a hunting expedition.
The young couple were delighted to see him. He scanned their faces eagerly. He was moved as he gazed at them; they were such children, and did he not know what it meant to be a young husband? He remembered even now with a shudder his first weeks of marriage.
“And how are you both, my dear children?” he asked as he embraced them.
“We are very happy, Papa,” they assured him.
Mary was pale; that would be explained by her malady, but the Dauphin seemed shamefaced. They did not tell the King that their happiness had lasted until they had been compelled to indulge in a nightly duty which was distasteful to them both. Henri did not ask. He remembered his own agonies when his witty father had made brilliant remarks to his young son.
They will grow out of it, he promised himself. They are so fond of each other. François turns to her for everything, and she is as ready to comfort him and humor him as she ever was.
Yet so concerned was the King that he decided he would separate the newly married pair for a few weeks and see what effect it had.
“François,” he said, “I wish you to join the camp at Amiens. Honeymoons cannot last forever, you know.”
“No, Papa.”
The King saw the fear leap into the boy’s eyes. He dreaded leaving Mary and Villers-Cotterets for the camp where there would be rough soldiers.
