Royal Road to Fotheringhay

by Виктория Холт

  Her uncles and Henri of France had assured her that she was the rightful heir to England. At the moment she was in decline but she would not always be so. One day she might be Queen of Spain and then these Englishmen would think twice before addressing her as they did now.

  She said: “My lords, I shall not sign the treaty of Edinburgh.”

  “It has been signed in Edinburgh, Madame.”

  “But it would seem that it does not become valid until you have my signature.”

  This they could not deny.

  Here was another of those moments of folly, the result of hurt pride and ignorance.

  “Then, my lords, I will say to you that I cannot give you the signature for which you ask. I must have time to ponder the matter.”

  Exasperated, they left her. They wrote to their mistress; and Elizabeth of England vowed that she would never forgive—and never trust—her Scottish kinswoman as long as that beautiful head remained on those elegant shoulders.

  SHE TRAVELED down to Rheims to stay for a while with her aunt, Renée de Guise, at the Abbey Saint-Pierre-les-Dames. Renée, the sister of those ambitious uncles, was quite unlike them. Perhaps she, a member of that mighty and ambitious family, had felt the need to escape to a nunnery in order to eschew that ambition which was at the very heart of the family’s tradition.

  There was quietness with Renée, but Mary did not want quiet. She was restless.

  Renée, knowing that Mary was troubled, tried to help her through prayer. Mary realized that Renée was suggesting that if she too would shun ambition—as Renée had done—she might find peace in a life of dedication to prayer and service to others.

  Mary, emotional in the extreme, thought for a short time—a very short time—of the peace to be found within convent walls. But when she looked in her mirror and saw her own beautiful face, and thought of dancing and masking with herself the centre of attention, when she remembered the admiration she had seen in the eyes of those men who surrounded her, she knew that whatever she had to suffer in the future—even if it meant returning to Scotland—it was the only life that would be acceptable to her.

  With Renée she did become more deeply religious; she was even fired with a mission. Her country was straining toward Calvinism, and she would bring it back to the Church which she felt to be the only true one.

  “But not,” she told Renée, “with torture and the fire, not with the thumbscrews and the rack. Perhaps I am weak, but I cannot bear to see men suffer, however wrong they are. Even though I knew the fires of hell lay before them, I could not torment myself by listening to their cries, and if I ever countenanced the torture, I believe those cries would reach me, though I were miles away.”

  Renée smiled at Mary’s fierceness. She said: “You are Queen of a country that is strongly heretic. It is your duty to return to it and save it from damnation. You are young and weak … as yet. But the saints will show you how to act.”

  Mary shuddered and, when she thought of that land in the grip of Calvin and his disciple Knox, she prayed that King Philip would agree to her marriage with his son, or perhaps, better still, she need never leave her beloved France. If Charles broke free of his mother’s influence, his first act would be to marry Mary Stuart.

  To Rheims at this time came her relations on a visit to the Cardinal. The Duke arrived with his mother, and there followed Mary’s two younger uncles, the Due d’Aumale and the Marquis d’Elboeuf.

  There were many conferences regarding Mary’s marriage into Spain.

  The Cardinal took her to his private chamber and there he tried to revive their old relationship. But she had grown up in the last month and some of her innocence had left her. The Cardinal seemed different. She noticed the lines of debauchery on his face, and how could she help knowing that his love for her depended largely on her ability to give him that which he craved: power? She was no longer the simple girl she had been.

  She was aloof and bewildered. It was no use, his drawing her gently to him, laying his fine hands on her, soothing and caressing, bringing her to that state of semi-trance when her will became subservient to his. She saw him more clearly now, and she saw a sly man. She already knew that he was a coward; and she believed that his love for her had diminished in proportion to her loss of power and usefulness.

  Marriage with France. Marriage with Spain. They were like two bats chasing each other around in his brain; and he was the wily cat not quite quick enough to catch one of them. But perhaps there was another—more agile, more happily placed than he. Catherine continually foiled him. He was wishing he could slip the little “Italian morsel” into her goblet, as she was no doubt wishing she could slip it into his.

  If he could but remove Catherine he would have Mary married to Charles in a very short time.

  To Rheims came the news which sent the spirits of the whole family plunging down to deep depression.

  Philip of Spain sent word that he would find it inconvenient, for some time to come, to continue with the negotiations for a marriage between his son Don Carlos and Mary Stuart.

  Catherine de Médicis stood between Mary and the King of France. She had—by working in secret—insinuated herself between Mary and the heir of Spain.

  Catherine was going to bring about that which she had long desired: the banishment from France of the young and beautiful Queen who had been such a fool as to show herself no friend to Catherine de Médicis.

  Word came from Lord James Stuart. He was coming to France to persuade his sister that it was time she returned to her realm.

  SO SHE WAS to leave the land she loved. The Court buzzed with the news. This was farewell to the dazzling Mary Stuart.

  She tried to be brave, but there was a great fear within her.

  She told her Marys: “It will only be for a short time. Soon I shall marry. Do not imagine we shall stay long in Scotland; I am sure that soon King Philip will continue with the arrangements for my marriage to Don Carlos.”

  “It will be fun to go to Scotland for a while,” said Flem.

  “They’ll soon find a husband for you,” declared Beaton.

  While she too could think thus Mary felt almost gay. It would only be a temporary exile, and she would take with her many friends from the Court of France.

  Henri de Montmorency, who had now become the Sieur d’Amville since the return of his father to power, whispered to her: “So France is to lose Your Majesty!”

  She was hurt by his happy expression. She said tartly: “It would seem that you are one of those who rejoice in my departure.”

  “I do, Your Majesty.”

  “I pray you let me pass. I was foolish enough to think you had some regard for me. But that, of course, was for the Queen of France.”

  He bent his head so that his eyes were near her own. “I rejoice,” he said, “because I have heard that I am to accompany your suite to Scotland.”

  Her smile was radiant. “Monsieur…,” she began. “Monsieur d’Amville… I…”

  He took her hands and kissed them passionately. For a moment she allowed this familiarity but she quickly remembered that she must be doubly cautious now. As Queen she could more easily have afforded to be lax than now when she was stripped of her dignity.

  She said coolly: “I thank you for your expression of loyalty, Monsieur d’Amville.”

  “Loyalty… and devotion,” he murmured, “my most passionate devotion.”

  He left her then, and when he entered his suite he was smiling to himself. One of his attendants—a poet, Pierre de Chastelard—rose to greet him.

  “You are happy today, my lord,” said Chastelard.

  D’Amville nodded and continued to smile. “Shall I tell you why, Chastelard, my dear fellow? I have long loved a lady. Alas, she was far beyond my aspirations. But now I have gone up and she has come down. I think we have come to a point where we may most happily meet.”

  “That is worthy of a poem,” suggested Chastelard.

  “It is indeed. I have high hopes.
”

  “The lady’s name, sir?”

  “A secret.”

  “But if I am to sing her praises in verse…”

  “Well then, I’ll whisper it, but tell no one that Henri de Montmorency is deep in love with the beautiful Mary Stuart who is going to be in need of comfort when she reaches her barbaric land. I shall be there to give it. That is why you see me so gay.”

  “Now I understand, my lord. It is enough to make any man gay. She is a beautiful creature and was most chaste, it would seem, when married to our King François. Even Brantôme—who can usually find some delicious tidbit of scandal concerning the seemingly most virtuous—has had nothing but praise to sing of the Queen of Scots.”

  “She is charming,” said D’Amville. “And it is true that she is chaste. What is it about her… tell me that. You are something of a connoisseur, my friend. She is innocent and yet… and yet…”

  “And yet… and yet…,” cried Chastelard. “My lady fair is innocent and yet… and yet… and yet…”

  The two young men laughed together.

  “May all good luck attend you,” said Chastelard. “I envy you from the bottom of my heart.”

  “My hopes soar. She will be desolate. She will be ready to love anyone who is French while she is in that dreary land. You shall accompany me, my dear Chastelard; you shall share in my triumph … at secondhand, of course!”

  When the two young men went out to follow the hunt they were still talking of the charms of Mary Stuart.

  MARY HAD MANY causes for anxiety as she contemplated the journey ahead of her. The Queen of England declared she would deny her a safe passage until she signed the treaty of Edinburgh. Mary was on her mettle then. She was determined not to let the Tudor see that she feared her ships and sailors. She said so boldly.

  “I may pass well enough home into my realm,” she said to Nicholas Throgmorton, “without your mistress’s passport. I remember your late King tried to prevent my arrival in France; but you see, Monsieur, I came safely without his permission. So I shall journey to my kingdom without that of your mistress.”

  It was folly, but she felt stronger for committing it. From now on she would act in accordance with her own wishes. She had gathered some notion of the unhappy state of her country when on her way from Rheims to Lorraine she was met by one of the Catholic lords—John Lesley—who had come to tell her that he brought with him the fealty of the Catholics in Scotland. Caithness, Crawford, Huntley and Atholl were firmly behind her, he assured her. Their plan was that she should land secretly in Scotland, enter Edinburgh with a good force behind her and drive the heretic Lord James from his position as the head of the country in her absence.

  She was alarmed. James was her brother—her dear Jamie. She had loved James. She knew he was a Protestant and that it would be his wish to make Scotland Protestant as hers was to make the country Catholic; but she was determined not to be a bigot, dearly as she loved her own faith and sure as she was that the Catholic Church was the true one. She could not feel happy, she said, contemplating that, on her arrival in her country, she would have to fight her own brother.

  Fortunately she was able to speak with the Sieur d’Oysel, that French officer who had, in Scotland, worked so faithfully for her mother.

  He shook his head over the project. “Your Majesty,” he said, “if you will deign to hear the advice of one who has campaigned long in your country and knows the temper of the people, he would say this: No doubt you wish to bring the Catholic Faith back to Scotland, but there are many in your land who are faithful to the Protestant cause, and to take arms against it at this time would plunge the whole of Scotland into a civil war. Your brother, Lord James, is a Protestant and you are a Catholic, but you need him. He will be loyal to you for expediency’s sake, if for no other reason. If you lost your crown where would he be? As a Stuart he must support a Stuart. His rivals—as yours are—would always be the Hamiltons or the Gordons. Do not be tempted to rash action. Your brother and Lord Maitland of Lethington are the cleverest statesmen in Scotland. They are both Protestants, but Your Majesty needs them. Therefore be discreet. Shelve the problem of religion until you have tested your people, and your brother with them. He could raise an army, so make sure—and this is what he would prefer to do—that he raises it for you and not against you.”

  It was advice which she gladly took, for the prospect of civil war horrified her.

  It was only a day or so later when Lord James himself arrived. When she saw him she was glad she had not allowed herself to be caught up in any intrigue against him. He was friendly and courteous; he was also very affectionate. He was very much the big brother whom she remembered. He was nearly thirty now and that seemed, to her, a very wise and experienced age.

  He told her how happy he was that she was coming home.

  “I am glad you will be there, Jamie.”

  He smiled at the use of the childhood name.

  “Though you hardly seem like Jamie now,” she went on. “Why, you are looking so wise, so full of knowledge. A deal must have happened to you since we last met.”

  “All my experience I place at your service.”

  He talked a little of affairs in Scotland, warning her to beware of certain lords. She listened half-heartedly. She was tired of the stories of continual strife.

  “Jamie,” she said, “I wish you had not gone so far along the road to Protestantism.”

  “My dear little sister, you have been brought up with Papists. Wait until you return home. Wait till you hear the sermons John Knox delivers in the Kirk at Edinburgh. Mayhap then you’ll come along with me on that road to Protestantism.”

  “I shall try to make you turn back, Jamie. I shall try to make you come with me”

  He smiled indulgently. He still looked upon her as the little sister. She was very charming, with such airs and graces that could be so delightful in a ballroom. She had all the necessary gifts to make her a great lady; none, he believed, to make her a great ruler. She was as different from the redheaded Queen below the Border as any woman could be. It was not surprising. Elizabeth had faced a hundred dangers when she was a child; Mary had been petted from babyhood.

  “I am sure,” he said, “that you can discourse most learnedly and charmingly on all subjects. It is one of the accomplishments they have taught you so well in France.”

  “Jamie, Rome would be ready to offer you great honors if you would change your mind.”

  “My mind is made up, dear sister; and it is firmly turned away from the Church of Rome.”

  “Then there is nothing I can say to turn you back to it?”

  “Nothing. And there are other and urgent matters to discuss.”

  “It will be a comfort to know that you are at my side to help me.”

  He took her hand and let his lips rest lightly on it. “I shall serve you faithfully while you serve Scotland,” he said.

  She believed him; there was that about James which made her believe him. She felt a little happier for her interview with him. But when he had left she still made excuses to stay in France.

  OFTEN MARY lay sleepless through the night thinking of the perilous journey across the seas. She would dream that the ships of the Queen of England captured hers; she dreamed that she stood before the redheaded virago, who swore she would have vengeance because Mary had denied her right to the crown of England.

  Back in Scotland were the quarrelsome nobles. Her brother and Maitland had not been good friends to her mother, she remembered. The Catholic nobles, led by Huntley, the Cock o’ the North, were untrustworthy. Yet she must go amongst them; and to reach them she must brave the perils of the English seas.

  Suddenly there came to her memory a man—an insolent man, yet a bold one. He was no friend of the Catholic nobles, and no friend of her brother and Maitland; rather, he had stood alone, a chieftain of the Border country, ruthless and despotic; yet her mother had said she would rely on his loyalty more readily than on that of any other man in Sco
tland.

  Then Mary made a sudden decision. She would send a messenger to James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, instructing him, as Admiral, to arrange for her safe passage to Scotland.

  She was surprised how much happier she could feel knowing that the arrangement for the voyage would be in the hands of a strong man.

  BOTHWELL WAS delighted to receive the summons. He believed his fortunes were now on the rise. He would ingratiate himself with the Queen. Moreover the prospect of a battle with the English delighted him. He began to plan for immediate departure.

  Anna Throndsen watched him with passionate eyes. Their life together was a battle. She would win one skirmish and lose the next. She was clever, but so was he, and he had all the advantages.

  “I depart tomorrow,” he told her gleefully.

  “But you have just arrived.”

  So he had. She was living in one of his houses and he visited her now and then. He snapped his fingers at her. He would not marry her. But there were times when he liked to visit her; he enjoyed the battles between them and delighted to arouse her anger, to hear her swear that she hated him, that she wished never to see him again; and then have her sobbing out her passionate need of him, caught in one of those weak moments when quite effortlessly he could sweep away all her resistance and leave her quivering with passion. That was his special gift. He had no need to stress it; it was simply there, and his very indifference to it enhanced it.

  “I come and go as I please,” he told her.

  “And where shall you go this time?” she asked. “Back to that old hag Janet Beaton? Have you then such a fancy for the aged? Do you prefer grandmothers?”

  “I shall not go to Janet this time, but to a young woman. She sends for me because none other will suit her purpose.”

  Passion flamed in Anna’s face. She ran to him and slapped his cheek. To him the blow was no more than a tap. He laughed aloud and caught her hand.

  “Why, Anna,” he said, “you almost tempt me to stay another night. I like you better in anger than in gentle love.”