Royal Road to Fotheringhay

by Виктория Холт

  “You are fortunate,” said Mary, “to find something to do which will help you to forget your grief for the late King.”

  Catherine sighed deeply. “Ah yes, indeed. I lost that which was more dear to me than all else. Yet I have much left, for I am a mother, and my children’s welfare gives me much to think of.”

  “As does this beautiful château, so recently in the possession of Madame de Valentinois.”

  “Yes… yes. We must all have our lighter moments, must we not? I hope that Chenonceaux will offer rich entertainments to my son and Your Majesty.”

  “You are so thoughtful, Madame.”

  “And,” went on the Queen-Mother, “to your children.”

  “We are very grateful indeed.”

  “I am concerned for my son. Since his marriage he has become weaker. I fear he grows too quickly.” The Queen-Mother leaned from her horse and touched Mary’s hand. She gave her ribald laugh. “I trust you do not tire him.”

  “I… tire him!”

  Catherine nodded. “He is such a young husband,” she said.

  Mary flushed. There was in this woman, as in the Cardinal, the power to create unpleasant pictures. The relationship which she and François knew to be expected of them, and which the Cardinal had made quite clear to them was their duty to pursue, gave them both cause for embarrassment. For neither of them was there pleasure. They could never banish thoughts of the Cardinal and Queen-Mother on such occasions. It seemed to them both that those two were present—the Cardinal watching them, shaking his head with dissatisfaction at their efforts, the Queen-Mother overcome with mirth at their clumsy methods. Such thoughts were no inducement to passion.

  “He is so weak now,” said Catherine, “that I am convinced that even if you did find yourself enceinte, no one would believe the child was the King’s.”

  Again that laugh. It was unbearable.

  They came to Chenonceaux, and Mary’s anger with Catherine had not left her when her women were dressing her for the banquet that night.

  She looked at her reflection in the beautiful mirror of Venetian glass—the first which had ever been brought to France—and she saw how brilliant were her long, beautiful eyes. There was always some meaning behind the words of the Queen-Mother. Mary guessed that, for all her laughter, she was very much afraid that Mary was with child. Mary was beginning to understand why. If she had a child and François died, Catherine’s son, Charles, would not be King; and Catherine was longing for the moment when Charles should mount the throne. François had once said: “My mother loves me because I am the King; she loves Charles because, if I die, he will be King.” But although François was King he was ruled by Mary’s uncles, and Catherine wished to reign supreme. That was why she had appointed special tutors for her son Charles. It would seem, thought Mary, in sudden horror, that she wants François to die.

  She looked round the beautiful room which was her bedchamber. Perhaps here King Henri and Diane had spent their nights, making love in the carved oak bedstead with its hangings of scarlet satin damask. She glanced at the carved cabinets, the state chair, the stools; and she was suddenly glad that she had not Catherine’s gift for seeing into the future. She was afraid of the future.

  “Bring me my gown,” she said to Mary Beaton, who, with Seton, helped her into it. It was of blue velvet and satin decorated with pearls.

  “A dress indeed for a Queen,” said Flem, her eyes adoring. “Dearest Majesty, you look more beautiful than ever.”

  “But Your Majesty also looks angry,” countered Beaton. “Was it the Queen-Mother?”

  “She makes me angry,” admitted Mary. “How like her to come to this château! She says that Chaumont is full of ghosts. I wonder the ghost of the dead King does not come and haunt her here.”

  “It is very soon after…,” murmured Livy.

  “She’s inhuman!” cried Mary.

  One of her pages announced that the Cardinal was come to see her. The ladies left her.

  As he kissed her hand, the Cardinal’s eyes gleamed. “Most beautiful!” he declared. “Everyone who sees you must fall in love with you!”

  Mary smiled. Her image looked back at her from the Venetian mirror. There was an unusual flush in her cheeks and her eyes still sparkled from the anger Catherine had aroused. She enjoyed being beautiful; she reveled in the flattery and compliments which came her way. Tonight she would dance more gaily than she ever had before, and so banish from her mind the unpleasantness engendered by the Queen-Mother. François had been advised to rest in his bed. It was wrong of her to feel relieved because of this; but nevertheless it was comforting to remember she need not be anxious because he might be getting tired. Tonight she could be young and carefree. She was, after all, only seventeen; and she was born to be gay.

  “Those who have always been in love with you,” went on the Cardinal, “find themselves deeper and deeper under your spell. But tell me, is there any news?”

  She frowned slightly. “News? What news?”

  “The news which all those who love you anxiously wait to hear. Is there any sign of a child?”

  Now she was reminded of that which she preferred to forget—François, the lover who could not inspire her with any passion, François, who apologized and explained that it was but their duty. She saw the pictures in her mind reflected in the Cardinal’s eyes. She saw the faint sneer on his lips, which was for François.

  “There is no sign of a child,” she said coolly.

  “Mary, there must be; there must be soon.”

  She looked at the sparkling rings on her delicate fingers and said: “How can you speak to me thus? If God does not wish to bless our union, what can I do about it?”

  “You were made to be fruitful,” he said passionately. “François, never!”

  “Then how could we get a child?”

  His eyes had narrowed. He was trying to make her understand thoughts which were too dangerous to be put into words.

  “There must be a child,” he repeated fiercely. “If the King dies, what will your position be?”

  “The King is not dead, and if he does die, I shall be his sorrowing widow who was always his faithful wife.”

  The Cardinal said no more; he turned away and began to pace the room.

  “I am a very happy wife,” said Mary softly. “I have a devoted husband whom I love with all my heart.”

  “You will hold Court alone tonight?” said the Cardinal, stopping in his walk to look at her. “You will dance. The most handsome men in the Court will compete for the honor of dancing with you. I’ll warrant Henri de Montmorency will be victorious. Such a gallant young man! I fear his marriage is not a very happy one. Yet doubtless he will find many to comfort him, if comfort he needs.”

  He looked into his niece’s eyes and watched the slow flush rise from her neck to her brow. She would not look at the pictures which he was holding before her; she would not let him have possession of her mind. She feared him, almost as much as François feared him, and she was longing now to break away from him.

  “Let us go now,” she said. “I will call my women.”

  There was a satisfied smile about his lips as he left her. But she would not think of him. She was determined to enjoy the evening. She went to see François before going down to the banqueting hall. He lay on his bed, his eyes adoring her, telling her that she looked more beautiful than ever. He was glad that he could rest quietly in his bed, yet he wished that she could be with him.

  She kissed him tenderly and left him.

  Down to the great hall she went with her ladies about her.

  “The Queen!”

  All the great company parted for her and fell to their knees as she passed them.

  The Cardinal watched her speculatively. If she were in love, he thought, she would know no restraint; then she would turn from a husband who, if not impotent, was next door to it. Then there would be a child. It would be almost certain with one as passionate as Mary would become. It would not be the
first time that a King believed the child of another man to be his.

  His eyes met those of the Queen-Mother. She composed her features. Ah, thought the Cardinal, you were a little too late that time, Madame le Serpent. You are desperately afraid that she is already with child. That would spoil your plans, Madame. We know that you are waiting for your son François to die, so that your little puppet Charles, his Mothers boy, shall take the throne, and you, Madame, shall enjoy that position behind it which is now mine and my brothers. But he must not die yet. Everything must be done to prevent such a calamity. He must not die until he has fathered Mary’s child.

  Mary sat at the head of the banqueting table and her eyes glistened as she surveyed the delicacies set before her. The Queen-Mother, in her place at the great table, for the moment forgot her anxiety as to the condition of her daughter-in-law. She relished her food even more than did the little Queen. Fish delicacies, meat delicacies, all the arts known to the masters of cookery were there to be enjoyed. They both ate as though ravenous, and the company about them did likewise.

  But when the meal was over and Mary rose, she was beset by such pains that she was forced to grip the table for support; the lovely face beneath the headdress of pearls was waxy pale. Mary Beaton ran to her side to catch her before she fell fainting to the floor.

  There was consternation, although all were aware of the attacks which now and then overcame the Queen.

  The Cardinal was alert. He had never seen Mary swoon before, although he knew that the pains she suffered, particularly after a meal, were often acute. Could it be that she was mistaken when she had said there was not to be a child? He saw the color deepen in his brothers face and the eye above the scar begin to water excessively. Could Mary be unaware of her state? Was it the quickening of the child which had made her faint?

  In such a moment the brothers could not hide their elation. The Queen-Mother intercepted their triumphant glances. She also was too moved to mask her feelings. This could be as much her tragedy as the Guise brothers’ triumph.

  She quickly pushed her way to the fainting girl.

  Mary Beaton said: “I will get Her Majesty’s aqua composite at once, Madame. It never fails to revive her.”

  The Queen-Mother knelt down by the Queen and looked searchingly into her face. Mary, slowly opening her eyes, gave a little cry of horror at finding the face of Catherine de Médicis so close to her own.

  “All is well, all is well,” said Catherine. “Your Majesty fainted. Have you the aqua? It is the best thing.”

  The Queen-Mother herself held the cup to the Queens lips.

  “I am better now,” declared Mary. “The pain was so sharp. I … I am afraid it was too much for me.”

  They helped her to her feet and she groped for the arm of Mary Beaton.

  “I will retire to my apartments,” she said. “I beg of you all, continue with your dancing and games. I shall feel happier if you do.”

  The Cardinal stepped forward, but Mary said firmly: “No, my dear Cardinal. I command you to remain. You too, Madame. Come, Beaton, give me your arm. My Marys will conduct me to my chamber and help me to bed.”

  They who had crowded all about her drew back and dropped to their knees as, with her four faithful women, she went from the banqueting chamber.

  She lay on the oaken bedstead, the scarlet damask curtains drawn about it. The pain had subsided but it had left her exhausted. She would sleep until morning and then rise refreshed from her bed.

  She was awakened by a movement at her bedside. She knew that it was not late for she could hear the music from the ballroom. She opened her eyes and, turning, saw the Queen-Mother standing by her bed.

  Mary felt suddenly cold with apprehension. “Madame!” she cried, raising herself.

  “I did not mean to disturb Your Majesty,” said Catherine. “I came to see if you were at rest.” She laid a hand on Mary’s forehead. “You have a touch of fever, I fear.”

  “It is good of you to disturb yourself, Madame, but I know that it will pass. These attacks always do. They are painful while they last, but when they are gone I feel quite well.”

  “You have no sickness? You must tell me. Your health is of the utmost importance to me. You know that I have some knowledge of cures. Monsieur Paré will tell you that I come near to being a rival of his. You must let me care for you.”

  “I thank you, Madame, but I do not need your care. Where are my women?”

  “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.

  THE
Y 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.