Royal Road to Fotheringhay

by Виктория Холт

  The King and Diane were grateful to her. Neither of them wished to hear any more of the disposal of the matter, which they felt sure could be left entirely to the Queens capable handling.

  CATHERINE CAME stealthily into Lady Fleming’s chamber. Janet rose from the bed on which she was lying and fell to her knees before the Queen of France. She lifted fearful eyes to the flat expressionless face.

  “You may rise,” said Catherine. She laughed suddenly. “We should not have known yet,” she added, “had you not boasted so freely.”

  “Your Majesty, I implore your forgiveness….”

  The Queen lifted her shoulders. “The King chose to honor you. You should not ask my forgiveness for that. How many times?”

  “Your Majesty…”

  “How many times?” insisted the Queen. Again that laugh. “So many that you cannot remember? It began on the night of the masque which I arranged. Well, now Madame de Valentinois has returned, and your services are no longer required.”

  “Your Majesty, I will be content to obey your command.”

  “My command is that you leave the Court this night.”

  “Leave the Court…”

  “Have no fear. Arrangements have been made. Remember you carry a royal bastard. You will be cared for and doubtless the child will be brought to Court. The King, as you have doubtless heard, had a child by a girl of Piedmont. It happened when he was away from France. You understand? The blood is hot and there is always some wanton at hand who can amuse for an hour until something better can be found.” The Queen laughed again. “It is the way of all men, my dear Lady Fleming, and kings are no exceptions.”

  Janet covered her face with her hands and began to cry. “Madame,” she sobbed, “I beg of you, let me stay. I have been sent here to guard the Queen of Scots.”

  “I have another guardian for her. Do not weep so. It is bad for the child. Be prepared to leave in an hour. Where you are going you will have women to talk to. You may tell them how you were got with child by a most exalted person, but you shall not mention his name although you may describe all else in detail.”

  The door opened and Mary stood on the threshold.

  “I have looked everywhere—” she began, and saw the Queen of France. She immediately curtsied.

  “Ah,” said Catherine, “here is her Scottish Majesty.”

  “I … I had no idea that I should find you here, Madame,” said Mary. “I came to look for Fleming.”

  “You are just in time to say good-bye to her.”

  “Good-bye!”

  Mary forgot ceremony. She ran to her aunt and threw her arms about her.

  “Dearest Aunt Janet, what does this mean?”

  “I… I … I am going away.”

  “Oh, no, no!” cried Mary. “Is it… because of the King’s child?”

  Catherine interrupted. “So the Queen of Scots shares the knowledge of your lechery?”

  Mary said: “Madame, Lady Fleming is my governess.”

  “No longer, my child.”

  “No longer!”

  “Lady Fleming is no longer considered a person fit to hold that position.”

  “But who says so?”

  “I say so.”

  “Madame, Lady Fleming is my aunt.”

  “We all have our disreputable relations. Pray do not apologize for her.”

  “I … I wish to have her with me.”

  “My dear Reinette, you are in the charge of the King and myself and we have decided otherwise.”

  “I… I do not understand.”

  “I am glad of that. I had feared that under the influence of your lecherous relative you might have become quite depraved.”

  “Please, Madame, do not torment us.”

  “I? I have nothing but your welfare at heart. Young girls can quickly fall into trouble, particularly if they are fairly handsome and have a good opinion of themselves. I have a new governess for you. She will come to you this day. You will be pleased to hear that Madame de Paroy is taking over those duties which Lady Fleming has proved unworthy to perform.” The Queen smiled and turned to Lady Fleming. “In an hour—do not forget.” And to Mary: “Madame de Paroy will be with you shortly.”

  The Queen walked out of the room and Lady Fleming threw herself on to her bed and gave way to wild weeping.

  Mary stood still, her face white and angry, staring at the door.

  THE QUEEN OF FRANCE brought the woman into the apartment. Madame de Paroy could not hide her satisfaction, and the Queen was smiling blandly.

  “Ah, Madame de Paroy, here are your charges.”

  The four little girls had arranged themselves behind Mary.

  “The Queen of Scots waits to welcome you,” said Catherine.

  Mary’s eyes were sullen. She had seen the King. She had entreated him not to send Lady Fleming away and had begged him not to put Madame de Paroy in her place. The King was as kind as he always was; but he was ill at ease. He had said very kindly that such matters were the business of ladies. It was not his province to appoint a governess for his dear daughter of Scotland. He wished to please her, he wished to make her happy; but he was sure the Queen had the same intentions towards her. It had been necessary for her Scots governess to go away—there were matters beyond the understanding of little girls—and she must trust her guardians to do what was best for her.

  In despair Mary had sought out Diane. Diane received her with the utmost affection.

  “My dearest child,” said the King’s mistress, “there are matters which you are too young to understand. Lady Fleming has to leave Court, and Queen Catherine would deeply resent any interference in this matter of choosing your governess. She has your well-being at heart. You may trust her to do what is best for you.”

  Mary sensed that neither the King nor Diane were really giving her their attention, and she realized suddenly how impotent she was. They had petted her because it had been easy to pet her, and she had acquired an opinion of herself which was too exalted. She was but a child here as she had been in Scotland; she was at the mercy of the grown-up world, and the love which these charming people had given her was only a minute part of their lives.

  She was thinking of these things as she advanced to greet the Queen and Madame de Paroy.

  “We wish you to smile for Madame de Paroy,” said Catherine.

  But Mary would not or could not smile. Her lips froze; she could only glower at the ugly figure of the new governess. Catherine took Mary’s ear and pinched it hard. She smiled as she did so.

  “The Queen of Scotland has much to learn, Madame de Paroy,” said the Queen.

  Mary wanted to scream because of the pain in her ear. She felt all alone. The King and Diane were riding away from her. They were leaving her to the mercy of these women.

  “I have found it necessary,” went on Catherine, “to chastise my own sons, knowing that one day they may be Kings of France. Kings… Queens … all have to learn their lessons, and when pride grows to abnormal proportions it can best be subdued with a stick. There is nothing like a stick applied to the body to drive away a false sense of superiority. Do you agree with me, Madame de Paroy?”

  “I do indeed, Your Majesty.”

  “Now,” said Catherine, “a smile of welcome for your new governess.”

  Mary opened her lips showing her pretty teeth. She had to free her ear or cry out with the pain.

  “Hmmm” said Catherine, “not a very bright smile. But it will suffice for the present.”

  Mary was repeating under her breath: “Vulgar… beast… tradesman’s daughter … no true Queen … I hate you.”

  She would say it aloud when she was alone with her Marys.

  She was looking at the Queen and the new governess through a haze of tears. Catherine was well satisfied. The Queen of Scotland had just begun to learn what it meant to pit her puny strength against that of the Queen of France.

  THREE

  IN THE VAST ROOM AT SAINT-GERMAIN THE CHILDREN OF the royal
household were assembled as was their custom at this hour.

  In a window seat sat Mary—one of the eldest and certainly the most beautiful. She was holding court as she loved to do. Monsieur du Bellay was reading one of his poems, and those who gathered about her—among them Ronsard and Maison-Fleur, those great Court poets—knew that it had been written for her.

  “Contentez vous, mes yeux,

  Vous ne verrez jamais une chose pareille.”

  Ronsard and du Bellay had been the leaders of that coterie which called itself the Pleïade after a group of seven ancient Greek poets, and had been chosen by Marguerite, the King’s sister, to be literary tutors of the royal children and those young people who shared the nursery. Their favorite pupil was Mary, not only on account of her beauty which inspired them to lyrical verse, but because of her response to their own work and of that literary talent which she herself possessed.

  All eyes were on her now. François the Dauphin openly admired her, and he was anxious that all should remember she was to be his bride. His brother Charles, though only seven years old, was already one of Mary’s admirers. There was also Henri de Montmorency, the second son of Anne, the great Constable, and he could not take his eyes from her face.

  Mary was content at such times. She needed such adulation. The last six years of her life had not been easy; Madame de Paroy was still with her and had turned out to be all that Mary feared. Mean-spirited, she lost no time in reporting the least misdemeanor, and she and the Queen never allowed the smallest error to go unpunished. Mary had been made to understand that she was as subject to discipline as any of the other children. She had been chastised as they had; but she had suffered far more from the loss of her dignity than from any physical pain.

  In vain had she tried to rid herself of the woman. She had implored her mother to appoint a new governess; her uncle, the Cardinal, realizing the woman to be a spy of the Queen of France, had added his pleas to Mary’s, but in this matter Catherine stood firm, and neither the King nor Diane cared to interfere in a situation which had come about through the indiscretion of the King.

  Lady Fleming had never returned to France, although her son remained to be brought up as a royal child; he was often in the nurseries, a bright, intelligent boy who quickly won his father’s affection. But Janet had had to take up her residence in Scotland.

  So, at such times as this one when she could escape from the supervision of Madame de Paroy, Mary was happy, with François her constant companion and Charles showing his affection for her. She wished that Charles were not so wild and would grow out of those unaccountable rages of his. When they were on him he would suddenly kick walls, his dogs or his servants, whichever happened to be at hand. It was disconcerting. But she loved both brothers with a deep protective love. That did not mean that she was not becoming increasingly aware of the ardent looks sent in her direction by young Henri de Montmorency.

  There were so many people at the Court to tell her how lovely she was. Monsieur Brantôme, the writer, assured her that her beauty radiated like the sun in the noonday sky. Her uncle, François, Duc de Guise, the great soldier and idol of Paris, exclaimed when he saw her: “By the saints! You are the fairest creature in France!” Uncle Charles, the Cardinal of Lorraine, held her face in his beautiful scented hands and looked long into her eyes, declaring: “Your beauty will charm all France!” The King himself whispered to her that she was the loveliest of his daughters; and it seemed that all men were ready to sing the praises of Mary Stuart. Lately, devoted as she was to her dear François, she had begun to wish that he looked a little more like Henri de Montmorency.

  There were now thirty children in the royal nurseries, for many of the sons and daughters of noble houses were being brought up there. It was a world in itself consisting of ten chamberlains, nine cellarers, thirty-seven pages and twenty-eight valets de chambres, besides doctors, surgeons, apothecaries and barbers. The amount of food consumed by this community each day was prodigious. Twenty-three dozen loaves were baked each morning and eaten before nightfall; eight sheep, four calves, twenty capons as well as pigeons, pullets, hares and other delicacies went the same way. The Dauphin and Mary had in addition their separate establishments with a further retinue of servants, but much of their time was spent in these main apartments.

  The family of royal children had grown considerably since Mary had first come to France. These children were scattered about the room now.

  Twelve-year-old Elisabeth and her sister Claude who was slightly younger were in Mary’s group. Poor little Louis had died seven years ago and Charles was now the boy next in age to François. There was young Henri, who had been christened Edouard Alexandre but was always called Henri by his mother. He had just passed his sixth birthday and was extraordinarily handsome, with dark flashing eyes and the features of his mother’s Italian ancestors. He was the only one of the children whom Queen Catherine spoiled, and consequently he was very vain. Mary watched him displaying the earrings he was wearing.

  There was little Marguerite, whom Charles had nicknamed Margot, precocious and vivacious and looking older than her five years; and lastly Hercule, the baby, a pretty, chubby boy of three.

  Pierre de Ronsard was sitting beside her; he saw that her attention was wandering as she surveyed the children.

  “Since Monsieur du Bellay’s verses do not interest Your Majesty, may I read some of mine?” he asked.

  Mary held up her hand, laughing. “No more verses just now please. Let us talk of you. Tell us of your early life and how, with your friends, you formed that group of poets called the Pleïade”

  They gathered round while Ronsard told, in his clever and amusing way, of the Court of Scotland whither he had gone long before the birth of Mary, when her fathers first wife had arrived from France.

  He told how one day he had discovered a gentleman of the Court reading a small volume, how he had taken it, and once he had experienced the magic of those pages he had known that his life would be barren if it were not devoted to literature. He told of Cassandre, the woman he had loved; he quoted the sonnets he had written to her. He went on to speak of his life in the house of Jean Antoine Baïf where there was great poverty but greater love of literature.

  “We were worshipers in the temple of literature. It mattered not that we were cold and hungry. It mattered not that we shared one candle between us. We studied Greek and Latin, and literature was food and drink to us—our need and our pleasure. Then we discussed our great desire to make France the center of learning. We would enrich France; we would make her fertile. Literature was the gentle rain and the hot sun which would ripen the seed and give us a rich harvest. So we formed the Pléiade—seven of us—and with myself, du Bellay and Baïf as the leaders, the Pléiade was to shine from the heavens and light all France.”

  Henri de Montmorency had moved closer to Mary.

  His passionate eyes looked into hers.

  “Would it were possible to speak with you alone!” he whispered.

  SHE DID meet him alone. She had wandered through the gardens of Fontainebleau, through the great courtyard and past the fountains, and had made her way to the walled garden.

  Then she saw Henri de Montmorency approaching her. He was the second son of the great Constable of France whom the King loved and who, to his great grief, had been captured by the Imperial troops at the defeat of Saint Quentin and now lay a prisoner of Philip of Spain. How handsome he was, this Henri; he was so elegant in satin and velvet, the colors of which—pink and green—blended so perfectly. The jewels he wore had been carefully chosen. Henri de Montmorency—one of the most favored young men of the Court because his father had been, and doubtless would be again, one of the most powerful—was a leader of fashion and good taste.

  “Your Majesty!” He took Mary’s hand and raised it to his lips. The eyes he lifted to hers were ardent.

  She had no wish for such love as she believed was customary throughout the palaces of Fontainebleau, Blois, Amboise, Chambord
, or anywhere the Court happened to be. The love which François the Dauphin had for her was the love she wished for. She enjoyed the love of the poets—idealistic and remote; she enjoyed the ardent admiration of Charles. There was, also, the strange and somewhat mystic love which her uncle, the Cardinal of Lorraine, bore her. Those caressing hands which seemed to imply so much, those queer searching looks, those lingering kisses, that spiritual love as he had described it, disturbed her; it frightened her too, but she was child enough to enjoy being a little frightened. She was always afraid, when she was with the Cardinal, that his love for her would change and become something wild and horrible; she fancied that he too was conscious that it might, and that he took a delight in holding his passion on a leash which he would, from time to time, slacken so that it came near to her and yet did not quite reach her. She could not imagine what would happen if it did, but something within her told her that it never would because the Cardinal did not wish it; and in all things the Cardinal’s will was hers.

  All these loves were different from the love of ordinary mortals; pawing, kissing, giggling and scuffling she would not have. She was a queen and would be treated as such.

  Yet here was Henri de Montmorency, beautiful as she herself was beautiful, young as she herself was young, and offering yet another sort of love, a charming and romantic idyll.

  “I saw you enter the garden,” he said breathlessly. “I could not resist following you.”

  “We should not be here alone, Monsieur de Montmorency.”

  “I must see you alone sometimes. Sometimes we must do that which is forbidden. Does not Your Majesty agree?”

  “It is wrong to do that which is forbidden.”

  “Can we be sure of that? I am happier now than I have been since I first set eyes on you.”

  “But I do not think you should speak thus to me, Monsieur de Montmorency.”

  “Forgive me. I speak thus out of desperation. I adore you. I must let you know of my feelings. Many love you, but none could do so with more passion, with more devotion and more hopelessness than your devoted servant Henri de Montmorency.”