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Royal Road to Fotheringhay
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Текст книги "Royal Road to Fotheringhay "


Автор книги: Jean Plaidy



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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

“You must not blame them for letting me come to you. They understand my concern, and they dared not refuse my entry. Although now I have taken a step backward, they remember that, only a little while ago, I stood in your exalted position.” She laughed her loud laugh. “I still have some authority in the Court, my dear daughter.”

Catherine’s long delicate fingers were feeling Mary’s body—the small, not yet fully developed breasts, she was thinking, were not the breasts of an expectant mother.

Mary sprang up indignantly. “Madame, you concern yourself too much. I am well. I need only rest.”

“I will send Your Majesty a potion. Drink it and I’ll warrant you’ll feel better in the morning.”

“Madame, I feel better relying on my own remedies. But it is good of you to take such care of me.”

The Queen blew with her lips—a habit of hers. “And you my own daughter, the wife of my son? Naturally you are my concern. I think continually of your health. I will bring the potion to you at once.”

“Then I pray you leave it with Beaton or one of my women. I will sleep now and do not wish to be disturbed.”

“It will do you so much good that—as your mother—I shall insist on your taking it at once.”

Catherine went out smiling, and Mary lay still, her heart beating wildly.

It was not long before she heard a commotion in the apartment.

Beaton’s voice: “But, Madame, the Queen gave express orders—” Catherine’s voice: “Out of the way, my good woman. I myself will see that the Queen takes this dose.”

Mary kept her eyes tightly shut as the curtains were parted and Beaton with Catherine stood at her bedside.

“Her Majesty needs to sleep,” said Beaton in a high-pitched whisper which betrayed her fear.

Mary could picture the scene: Queen Catherine standing there with the goblet in her hand. Poor Beaton terrified, remembering all the rumors she had heard concerning the Italian woman.

What is in the goblet? wondered Mary. She hates me. She hates François. She wants François to die so that Charles will be the King. Could it be that she wishes to poison me, as some say she poisoned her husband’s brother? How would that serve her? No! It is not/whom she wishes to kill; it is the child she thinks is within me. That goblet will contain nothing deadly enough to kill me. There will be just enough poison to put an end to the life of an unborn child.

Beaton said, with great presence of mind: “I dare not disturb Her Majesty. That was her command.”

There was a pause before the Queen-Mother spoke. “I will leave this draught beside her bed. See that she takes it as soon as she wakes. It will ease her of her pains more quickly than anything the doctors can give her.”

“Yes, Madame.”

There was silence. Then Mary heard the sound of footsteps passing across the floor, and the shutting of a door.

When all was quiet she sat up in bed. “Beaton,” she whispered. “Beaton, are you there?”

Beaton came hurrying to her bedside.

“I was awake,” said Mary. “I heard all that was said.”

“Do not drink of it,” said Beaton. “I beg of Your Majesty not to drink.”

“Assuredly I shall not drink. Take it and throw it away… quickly, lest she comes back.”

Beaton was only too glad to do so. She returned in a few seconds with the empty goblet.

Beaton—strong practical Beaton—suddenly stepped forward and threw herself into the Queens arms. She did not speak, but tremors passed through her body.

THEY HAD SAID good-bye to Elisabeth. The parting saddened Mary. It was a sobering thought that her dear little playmate was lost to her, perhaps forever. There would be letters, but how could letters make up for that almost constant companionship which they had enjoyed over so many years?

There was bad news from Scotland where John Knox was demanding that Scotland seek freedom from the “Roman Harlot” as he called the Catholic Faith. Elizabeth of England was supporting him and appeared to have forgiven him for writing his “First Blast of the Trumpet against the Monstrous Regiment of Women.” Lord James Stuart was fretting for the Regency and Elizabeth was encouraging him. William Maitland of Lethington stood firmly with Lord James. The Duke of Châtelherault, with his unbalanced son Arran, was not far behind. They were fighting to establish Protestantism and drive Catholicism from the land.

The French sent aid, but it was not enough. All through the winter months came urgent appeals from the Queen Dowager of Scotland.

Mary was beginning to understand something of these matters; they could not be kept from her so easily now. Her thoughts were often with her mother whom she had not seen for nine years, although many letters had been exchanged between them. Mary smiled now to remember how hers had been full of trivialities.

One day she became more uneasy than ever. This was when Seton came to her and told her—when they were alone together—that she had seen a meeting between the King of Navarre and the English ambassador; and as the King of Navarre had evidently thought it advisable to go to the rendezvous heavily disguised, it would seem as though some intrigue was afoot between these two.

“But the King of Navarre is our own cousin,” said Mary. “He could not be involved in plots against us.”

“He is involved in plots against your uncles mayhap,” said Seton. “So many are… since they came to power.”

Mary shivered. “There is nothing but intrigue all about us. Seton, what will happen if the English take my Scottish crown from me?”

“Your Majesty will still be Queen of France.”

Mary thought of the sickly boy who was her husband. She thought of Catherine, standing by her bedside with the goblet in her hands.

For how long would she be Queen of France? she wondered. And then what would happen to her?

MARY WAS SITTING on the stone balcony which overlooked the courtyard of the Castle of Amboise. François was beside her and around them were ranged all the notable people of the Court, including the royal children.

It was March and the day was bright and cold. Mary sat shivering, though not because of the weather. These were the most terrible moments through which she had ever lived. She did not believe that she could endure much more. Francois’s face had turned a sickly green. The younger children were staring before them at the spectacle presented to them, with something like astonishment; they could not believe that it could really be happening. The Duchesse de Guise, wife of Uncle François, was fainting in her chair, her face the color of the balcony stone. She was in danger of falling but none dared go to her; they were afraid of the fury of the Duke.

Mary thought: I can no longer bear this. I cannot look on such things.

Who could be unmoved by such cruelty? The Queen-Mother could. She seemed to be watching with a calm interest. The Cardinal was also unmoved. There was a slight lifting of his lip which implied that he was gratified by the knowledge that those martyrs, who were being slaughtered and tortured before the eyes of the royal household, were not only learning but showing others what happened to those who opposed the House of Guise.

Mary’s eyes went involuntarily to the gibbet from which hung the limp figure of the Sieur de la Renaudie. The body swayed slightly in the March breeze; oddly enough it seemed to mock all the sightseers on the balcony; it seemed to be jeering at them. He was dead, he seemed to imply as he swayed indifferently, and nothing further could be done to hurt him.

François took Mary’s hand and pressed it. She turned her sorrowing eyes to his; silently they pleaded with him to stop this cruelty. But who were they to stop it? Each day they realized more and more that they were powerless. They bore proud titles; the people bowed and called them King and Queen; that was the extent of their power. When Mary was told: “You are Queen of England!” she had no alternative but to allow herself to be called Queen of England. When the followers of the Sieur de la Renaudie were brought up from the dungeons of Amboise and slaughtered before the eyes of the women and children of the royal household in the King’s name, the King had no power to forbid such brutality.

It had been explained to them. These rebels had planned to kidnap the King and Queen and members of the royal family, to banish the Guises and, if the King refused to become a Protestant, to set up a new King on the throne. But if the Guises had enemies, they also had friends. The plot had been concocted with the aid of the English, but English Catholics had heard of it and warned the Duke of Guise, with the result that it had been foiled and many prisoners had been taken.

“And not a single conspirator shall be spared,” declared the Duke. “They shall all be brought up from their dungeons. This will be a lesson to traitors.”

Heads, recently severed from living bodies, made ugly the beautiful battlements of the castle. The stench of blood was everywhere. Some of the rebels had been tied in sacks and thrown into the river. The beautiful Loire was stained with blood. There was blood everywhere… the sight, the smell of blood.

And the royal House of France—even young Margot and Hercule among them—must look on at the slaying of tortured men. They must watch slow and cruel death being meted out.

The Duchesse de Guise had struggled to her feet. She turned and ran from the balcony. Her husband, her brother-in-law and her son watched her with contempt.

Mary said: “François… François … I too must go. These sights will haunt me forever.”

“They will not permit it, Mary,” whispered François. “The Duchesse may go, but not the King and Queen.”

“It must be stopped. François, you must stop it. I cannot bear it.”

The Duke was looking at her coldly, the Cardinal in astonishment.

“Your Majesty should resume your seat,” said the Cardinal. “Your Majesty sets a bad example to others present.”

The Duke cried: “My wife and now my niece! By the saints, this is a sad day for Guise and Lorraine.”

The Queen-Mother came forward and laid a hand on Mary’s shoulder. She looked at the Guises with understanding. She had been flirting with the Protestant cause and was anxious to show the powerful brothers—since they were at the moment in the ascendant—that she was with them.

“Your Majesty will never know how to reign if you do not learn how to administer justice,” she said.

François looked at his wife eagerly when she resumed her seat.

He took her hand and tried to soothe her. But she was sickened by the stench of blood. She would never think of Amboise after this, she was sure—dear, beloved Amboise from whose eminence she had looked down on the mingling streams of the Loire and the Amasse—without remembering this terrible day.

She knew, in that moment, that she was afraid not only of Catherine but of her uncles; never, until now, had she realized what an empty title she bore. Her dignity was touched; her anger grew. These terrible deeds were done in her name—hers and that of François. These poor men were crying for mercy to her and to François, and by sitting here, meekly looking on, she and François were registering their approval of the deeds which were done in their names.

She could not stop the slaughter; she knew that. But she would not sit quietly and see it done.

“I will not stay here, François,” she said firmly. “I will not.”

“Hush!” he soothed. “Hush, dearest! They will hear. We have to stay. They say so.”

“You are the King,” she murmured.

The color was glowing in her face now as she went on: “The King may remain if he wishes. The Queen shall not.”

She made to rise. Her uncle, the Cardinal, was beside her; she felt his hands forcing her into her seat.

“François,” she cried, “you are the King.”

And in that moment—for the first time in his life—François was the King.

He rose, and suddenly a new dignity came to him. He said: “Monsieur le Cardinal, I command you to take your hands from the Queen.”

There was silence on the balcony. In very astonishment the Cardinal had dropped his hands to his sides.

“You wish to go to your apartments?” said François to Mary.

His mother came forward. “My son,” she said, and there was the venom of the serpent in her cold eyes and her cold voice, “it is the duty of the King and Queen to see that justice is done. Remember you are the King.”

“I do remember, Madame,” said François. “And I would ask you to do so. You also, Cardinal. Come, Mary. You wish to retire. Then let us go.”

He took Mary’s hand and led her from the balcony. No one attempted to stop them. François, for one short moment, was indeed King of France.

FRANÇOIS’S GLORY was short-lived. He had not the courage to sustain his new role. He realized that he had succeeded merely because he had taken those clever enemies of his by surprise.

The Cardinal’s long mouth continued to sneer at him, continued to command. His mother was forever at his side. He was growing weaker. There was an abscess in his ear which caused him great pain, and Monsieur Paré could do little to ease it. Each day his strength seemed to wane.

He knew that the people did not love him and that they blamed him for the terrible things which were happening under the reign of the Guises.

Rumors concerning the young King spread throughout the country.

“The King suffers from a wasting disease,” was whispered. “It is terrible in its consequences and a miracle that he lives at all. He only does so by drinking the blood of freshly killed babies.”

Wherever the King rode, the people called their children to them in terror; they bolted and barred their doors in the villages through which he passed.

“When my father rode abroad,” said François sadly, “the people hurried out to greet him. It was the same with my grandfather. Yet they shrink from me; they run from me; they hate and fear me. My father—good man though he was—was responsible for the death of many; my grandfather too. Yet they loved these Kings and they run from me who have killed no one. Oh, Mary, life is so unfair. Why was I born like this? Why was I not born tall and strong like my father and my grandfather? Why cannot I be a king, since I am born a king … as they were? Why do I have to be the tool of the Cardinal? I hate the Cardinal. I hate him… hate him….”

The Cardinal had come into the room. He was smiling slyly, but Francois’s grief was too deep for him to care for the Cardinal’s contempt. He ran to the man, grasped his padded robes and shook him.

He cried: “I believe it is you they hate. I do not believe it is their King. They know I would not hurt them. It is you they hate… you… you! Why don’t you leave us alone? Why don’t you go away—then we shall know whom it is the people hate… you or me… you or me.” Francois’s voice rose to a shriek as he cried: “Renard lasche le roi!” Then he turned away and covered his face with his hands.

The Cardinal laughed. “Is this a raving lunatic?” he asked of Mary. “I had thought to parley with the King of France, and I am confronted by a madman.”

“He is not mad,” said Mary. “He has just awakened. He is no longer a boy to be led. He has discovered that he is the King.”

“These are wild words,” said the Cardinal sadly, “and foolish ones. I would not have expected to hear them from you.”

Mary thought of all the care he had given her, but she thought also of the love François had always had for her. She would never forget as long as she lived how, because she had been in distress on the balcony, he had forgotten his fear and in the face of all those whose displeasure he dreaded he had, for her sake, remembered he was a king.

François had begun to sob hysterically. He cried: “You are afraid… you are more afraid than I. You are afraid of an enemy’s dagger. That is why your clothes are padded. That is why the fashion of cloaks and boots must be changed. In the fashions we see signs of the Cardinal’s cowardice.”

“It would seem to me,” said the Cardinal, “that the King is deranged. Perhaps I should call the Queen-Mother. I thank God that there are others who could readily take his place should his mind become too deranged for him to wear the crown.”

Mary cried: “Should you call him deranged because he seeks to remind you that he is the King of France?”

The Cardinal looked at the sobbing boy. “There is the most cowardly heart that ever beat inside the body of a king,” he muttered.

“I beg of you, do not try him too far,” said Mary.

The Cardinal snapped his sparkling fingers to imply his contempt for the King.

Mary’s eyes flashed. “Do not be so sure that you are right, my uncle. I am not the foolish girl you seem to think me. I know what is happening here—and in Scotland. You, and my uncle, have set the English against me. You may well have lost me my Scottish crown.”

The Cardinal looked at her in horror. His face was stern as he said: “This I cannot endure. I have given my devotion to you. I have thought of nothing but your welfare since you came to France. I have cherished you. I have loved you more than any living person. And you talk to me like this! You break my heart.”

Mary looked at him in anguish. What had she said? It was true that he had loved her. No one had cherished her as he had. She, remembering those intimate moments which they had shared, could not bear to see his proud head bent.

“Uncle,” she said, “my dearest uncle …” She ran to him. His face relaxed. She was held in those arms; her body was crushed against the scarlet padded robes. His lips were on her forehead, on her cheek, on her mouth.

“So you love me then, beloved? You love me yet?”

“Dearest uncle, I shall never forget what you have done for me.”

He took her face in his hands. “Plans,” he said, “the best plans go wrong sometimes, Mary. What has happened in Scotland is a bitter blow, I grant you. But have no fear. Your uncle François is the most powerful man in France. He loves you. I love you. Together we will face the world for your sake.”

“I know.”

“It is what happened at Amboise, is it not, which has turned you from me? That shocked you, my dearest. But it was necessary. You ask yourself, How could we order such things to be done? How could we look on with apparent satisfaction? For this reason, Mary: Because these scoundrels were attempting to harm our beloved niece. We may be hard men; but we love the deeper for that.”

Now she was weeping. He was dominating her once more. Now he was, as he had said, her spiritual lover. Nothing could come between them—certainly not a diseased boy, even if he called himself the King.

All was well, thought the Cardinal. Let her comfort the crying boy now if she could.

Mary was his, and the King was hers; and that meant, of course, that the Duke and Cardinal, since they need fear no opposition from the King and Queen, could continue to rule France.

IN THE antechamber at Saint Germain a young Scots nobleman was waiting to see the Queen of France. He came with letters from the Queen-Regent of Scotland, and he had proved himself to be one of the few men about that Queen whom she believed she could trust.

He was twenty-five years of age. Tall and broad-shouldered, he gave an impression of enormous strength and vitality; his expression was one of cool unconcern; he was arrogant in the extreme, and many of the elegant Frenchmen who had looked askance at this man who had the appearance of a Norse warrior, had turned quickly away lest that indolent stare, which their faint mockery had aroused, might change to something still less pleasing. No man, looking into that granitelike face, sensing the power in those great arms and shoulders, would care to take the consequences of his anger single-handed.

He stood, legs apart, a man who would be noticed in any assembly, dominant, the over-powering vitality showing itself in the coarse springy hair, the bold flashing eyes, the entirely sensual mouth which suggested that he was a man of many adventures, sexual and warlike; and this impression was by no means a false one. He was as hardy as the granite hills of his native land; he was as wild as the Border from which he came. He was James Hepburn, who had been for the last four years—since the death of his father—the Earl of Bothwell.

As he waited he was wondering what good could come to him through this meeting with the Queen. He had heard a few days ago that her mother had died. She had long suffered from a dropsical complaint and her death was not unexpected. Now the girl who had not reached her eighteenth birthday was his Queen; he would offer her his faithful service, but in return he would expect rewards.

He had heard tales of her fascination but he was sceptical. He did not believe that one woman could be as perfect as she was represented to be. His lips curled a little. The beauty of queens was apt to be overrated. No Hepburn would join the ranks of their idolators. Queens were women and it was folly to forget that all-important fact. No Hepburn should. There was a story in the family that his ancestor, Adam Hepburn, had found the royal widow, Mary of Guelders, most accessible, and that Queen had become, so it had been recorded, “lecherous of her body” with the Hepburn. His own father, Patrick Hepburn—who had been called the Fair Earl and had had a way with women—had hoped to marry the Queen, Marie de Guise, and had even divorced his wife, James’s mother, to make the way clear. It was true that the royal widow had used his desires in that direction to suit her own purposes, but she had been the loser when, in his pique and anger against her, he had become friendly with the English.

To James Hepburn queens were women, and he had yet to meet the woman who had been able to show an indifference to him.

He would ask for some high office, for he was an ambitious man. He would never be like his father, whatever the provocation, for he hated the English and wished to serve Scotland and the Queen faithfully; but he wished to be rewarded for doing so.

He whistled the tune of a border song as he waited. He was glad to be in France. He had spent some of his youth here, for a certain amount of education at the Court of France was considered by the Scots nobility as a desirable part of a young man’s upbringing. Scotland was closely united with France and the French had the reputation of being the most cultured Court in the world. To France came young Scotsmen, and so to France some years ago had come James Hepburn.

He was particularly glad to be here at this time; not only because it was an important time politically, but in order to escape the tearful and too passionate devotion of Anna Throndsen. Anna was expecting their child; he had promised marriage, but he grew tired of women very quickly.

His upbringing had aggravated those characteristics which made him the man he was. He did not remember very much of his life before he was nine years old. That must have been because it was so easy and pleasant; his mother had had charge of him and his sister Janet, and the two of them had been tenderly cared for. They were perhaps wild by nature; they needed restraint, for the family traits were strongly marked in both of them. Their ancestors were lusty men, strong, wild and sensual.

It was unfortunate that, when James was nine years old, his father had secured a divorce from his mother. Ostensibly the grounds were consanguinity; actually they were brought because the Fair Earl wished to pay court to Mary of Guise.

The Countess of Bothwell was forced to leave her home and with it her two children. Gone was the restraining hand and the two—redheaded Janet and tawny James—ran wild.

As a boy of nine James saw terrible things. Henry the Eighth had declared war on Scotland and with typical ferocity had instructed his soldiers to put all to the fire and sword.

“Burn and subvert!” cried the tyrant. “Put all men and women to fire and sword without exception where any resistance should be shown to you. Spoil and set upside down, as the upper stone may be the nether, and not one stick stand by another, sparing no creature.”

The life of adventure had begun. James in his flight from one town to another, saw the soldiers of the English King carry out his orders. As a result the boy was filled with a passionate hatred toward the English, a hatred which burned within him and made him long to act as he saw their soldiers acting. Rape, torture and death were commonplace sights to him. They did not disgust; they were part of the adventurous way of life; he merely longed to turn the tables, and he swore he would one day.

He became a man at an early age. He was cynically aware of his father’s alliance with the enemy; he knew of his father’s fondness for women.

He spent a great part of his youth in the establishment of his great-uncle Patrick, Bishop of Aberdeen. The Bishop was a merry man, eager to educate his great-nephew in such a way as to bring credit to the name of Hepburn. He was a great drinker; food and drink, he declared, were the greatest pleasures in life, apart from one other. He would slap the boy on the back when he told him this. The one other? Did he not know? The Bishop put his hands on his knees and rocked with laughter. He would wager the boy– being a Hepburn—would soon know what he meant; if he did not, then, by all the saints, he could not be his fathers son.

In the Bishop’s Palace the young James would lie awake and listen to the nightly perambulations of his great-uncle’s friends. There were whisperings and laughter, little screams of pleasure. James thought he understood. Life at Crichton, his fathers home, had not been without these phenomena, but never had he known them conducted on the scale they were in the Bishop’s Palace of Spynie.

The Bishop was very fond of several comely serving women. He would chuck them under the chin or pinch various parts of their bodies as he passed them. Sometimes young James would be with him, but he did not abstain from his intimate greeting for the sake of the boy. Why should he? The boy was a Hepburn.

“A real Hepburn!” he would say; and if there was a woman at hand he would push the boy toward her and she, taking her cue, would caress him and say that he was indeed a lovely boy.

In the banqueting hall James would sometimes sit with the Bishop and his cronies, listening to their conversation which invariably concerned their amatory adventures.

The Bishops numerous children often came to visit him, and he was very fond of them all. There were so many Janets and so many Patricks that James could not remember them all. It was the Bishop’s delight to have them legitimized, several at a time.

James willingly took to the life at the Palace of Spynie. It was the life for him. He very soon began to swagger with the Bishop and his friends. He learned how to carry his liquor and boast of his adventures. The Bishop was delighted in his great-nephew. “A true Hepburn!” was his frequent comment.

In France, whither he had gone to complete his education, he found nothing that he had learned at Spynie a disadvantage. He never did and never would like what he thought of as the effeminate manners of the French. He would not abandon his Scottish accent; he would not ape anybody. He was himself and was determined to continue to be. Moreover he found that his methods were as effective as any. There was not a gallant in the Court of France who could boast of so many easy conquests as could James Hepburn, for all that he did not write pretty poems, nor dance and scent himself, nor wear jewels in his ears. His attractiveness lay in his dynamic personality, in that obvious virility. Not for him the graces; he would not attempt to woo. It was his way to take at a moment’s fancy, for that was the way to enjoy. Too long deliberation was fatal to pleasure; his passions came quickly and as quickly passed.

His most satisfying love affair had been with Janet Beaton, aunt to that Mary Beaton who was one of the Queen’s Marys. She had had three husbands and was nineteen years older than James, but a wonderful woman, tempering wisdom with passion, friendship with love. It was a very satisfying relationship to both of them. They had become “handfast,” which meant that they were betrothed and that the betrothal was binding. Handfasting involved no actual ceremony. The couple merely lived together and, if after a certain period, they wished to go through the ceremony of marriage, they were free to do so.

The difference in their ages was too great, James realized; Janet realized it also. Janet was the only reasonable woman he had encountered in his amatory life, for he tired so quickly, the women so slowly. Janet had said that though they ceased to be lovers, there was no reason why they should not remain friends. With Janet he had been as nearly in love as he could be.

It was a pity that Anna Throndsen was not so reasonable.

He had set out on an embassy for the Queen-Mother of Scotland. First he was to go to Denmark where he was to use his persuasive powers on King Frederick that he might lend his fleet to Scotland against the English; secondly he must visit the Court of France, taking letters to the Queen from her mother.

He had set off for Denmark with high hopes, and his sojourn there might have been very successful, for he had won Frederick’s promise of help; but with the death of the Queen, the political situation had changed. England was ready to discuss peace with France and Scotland, so that Frederick’s offer was no longer needed.

Meanwhile James’s personal affairs were giving him some anxiety.

Anna was not only attractive, she was clever; she had been outstanding among the women he had met in Denmark, not only because she was dark among so many who were fair-haired, but because she was a shrewd businesswoman. The eldest of seven daughters and having one younger brother, she was bold and ruled her parents. James was immediately attracted and they very quickly shared the same bed. Anna had ideas about marriage; she understood that James was a lover without much love, but with lust which came quickly and was quickly satisfied. But his virility was overpowering, and even Anna had succumbed and had felt the need to satisfy passion and make arrangements afterward.


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