Royal Road to Fotheringhay

by Jean Plaidy

  He felt that he was no better than a bone over which ban dogs were fighting.

  His mother had been quick to act. Even during her period of mourning she had managed to shut out those two men. She had said: “The King is my son. He is not a King yet; he is merely a boy who is grieving for his father. I will allow no one to come near him. Who but his mother could comfort him now?”

  But her comfort disturbed him more than his grief, and he would agree to anything if only she would go away and leave him alone to weep for his father. Mary could supply all the comfort he needed, and Mary alone.

  Mary’s uncles came to the Louvre. They did not ask for an audience with the Queen of France; there could be no ceremonies at such a time, said the Cardinal, between those who were so near and dear. He did not kneel to Mary; he took her in his arms. The gesture indicated not only affection, but mastery.

  “My dearest,” he murmured, “so it has come. It has come upon us unexpectedly. So my darling is Queen of France. That is what I and your uncles and your grandmother have always wished for you.”

  Mary said with the faintest reproof: “We are as yet mourning the dead King.”

  The Cardinal looked sharply at her. Had the great honor gone to her head? Was she, as Queen of France, less inclined to listen to her uncle than she had been as Dauphine?

  He would not allow that.

  “You will need your family more than ever, Mary.”

  “Yes, Uncle, I know. I have often thought of being Queen, and now I think much of the King and how kind he always was and how dearly we children loved him. But he was not kind to everybody. Terrible things happened to those who were not of the true faith, and at his command.”

  “Heretics could not be tolerated in this country,” said the Cardinal.

  “But, Uncle, I am a good Catholic, yet I feel that it is wrong to torture people … to kill them because they wish to follow a different line of thought. Now that I am Queen I should like to promise everyone religious liberty. I should like to go to the prisons where people are held because of their religious opinions, open the doors and say: ‘Go in peace. Live in peace and worship God in the way you wish.’”

  The Cardinal laughed. “Who has been talking to you, my dearest? This is not a matter of religious thought—” He remembered his robes suddenly and added, “Only. Why, these men who lie in prison care little for opinions. They wish to set the Protestant Bourbons on the throne. Religion and politics, Mary, are married to one another. A man meets his death on the Place de Grève, perhaps because he is a heretic, perhaps because he is a menace to a Catholic monarch. The world is divided into Catholics and Huguenots. But you shall learn more about these things. For the time being you will, I am sure, with your usual good sense take the advice of your uncle François and your uncle Charles who think of nothing but your good.”

  “It is a comfort to know that you are with me.”

  He kissed her hand. “We will make the throne safe for you, dearest, and the first thing we must do is to remove all those who threaten us. Where is François? Take me to him. He must send for the Constable de Montmorency at once. The old man’s day is over. There you will see disappear the greatest of our enemies; and the other…” He laughed. “I think we may trust the Queen-Mother to deal adequately with Madame de Valentinois.”

  “The Constable! Diane!” cried Mary. “But—”

  “Oh, Diane was charming to you, was she not? You were her dear daughter. Do not be deceived, my dearest. You were her dear daughter because you were to marry the Dauphin, and it was necessary for all the Kings children to be her dear children. She is an enemy of our house.”

  “But she is your sister by marriage.”

  “Yes, yes, and we do not forget it. But she has had her day. She is sixty and her power has been stripped away from her. When the splinter entered the King’s eye she became of no importance—no more importance than one of your little Marys.”

  “But does not love count for something?”

  “She did not love you, child. She loved the crown which would one day be yours. You have to grow up, Mary. You have to learn a great deal in a short time. Do not mourn for the fall of Madame de Valentinois. She had her day; she may well be left to that Queen whom she has robbed of dignity and power for so many years.” He smiled briskly. “Now, tell the King that you wish to see him.”

  She went to the apartment where François sat in lonely state.

  He was glad to see Mary, but wished she had come alone; and particularly he wished that she had not brought the Cardinal with her.

  He tried to look as a king should look; he tried to behave as his father had. But how could he? In the presence of this man he could only feel that he was a lily-livered girl masquerading as a king.

  “Your Majesty is gracious to receive me,” said the Cardinal, and as he took the King’s hand, noticed that it was trembling.

  “My uncle the Cardinal has something to say to you, dearest,” Mary announced.

  “Mary,” said François, “stay here. Do not go.”

  She smiled at him reassuringly. The Cardinal, signing to them to sit on their chairs of state, stood before them.

  “Your Majesty well knows that your enemies abound,” he said. “Your position has changed suddenly and you will forgive me, Sire, if I remind you that you are as yet very young.”

  The King moved uneasily in his chair. His eyes sought Mary’s and sent out distress signals.

  “There is one,” continued the Cardinal, “whom it will be necessary for Your Majesty to remove from his sphere of influence without delay. I do not need to tell you that I refer to Anne de Montmorency, at present the Constable of France.”

  “The… the Constable…,” stammered François, thinking of the old man who alarmed him only slightly less than the sardonic Cardinal himself.

  “He is too old for his office, and Your Majesty’s first duty will be to summon him to your presence. Now this is what you will say to him—it is quite simple and it will make the position clear. ‘We are anxious to solace your old age which is no longer fit to endure the toil and hardship of service.’ That is all. He will give up the Seals, and Mary is of the opinion that they should be given to the two men whom you know you can trust. Mary has suggested her uncles, the Duke of Guise and myself.”

  “But…,” murmured François, “the Constable!”

  “He is an old man. He is not trustworthy, Sire. He has been in the hands of your enemies, a prisoner after Saint Quentin. What plight would France be in now had not my brother hurried to the scene of that disaster? As all France knows, François de Guise saved Your Majesty’s crown and your country from defeat. Mary, your beloved Queen, agrees with me. She wishes to help you in all things. She wishes to spare you some of the immense load of responsibility. That is so, is it not, Mary?”

  The caressing hand was pressed warmly on her shoulder. She felt her will merge in his. He was right, of course. He was her beloved uncle who had been her guide and counselor, her spiritual lover, ever since she came to France.

  “Yes, François,” she agreed, “I want to help you. It is too big a load for you, because you are not old and experienced. I long to help you, and so does my uncle. He is wise and knows what is best.”

  “But, Mary, the Constable? And there is my mother—”

  “Your mother, Sire, is wrapped up in her grief. She is a widow mourning her husband. You can understand what that means. She must not be troubled with these matters of state. As yet she could not give her mind to them.”

  “You must do as my uncle says, François,” insisted Mary. “He knows. He is wise and you must do as he says.”

  François nodded. It must be right; Mary said so; and, in any case, he wished to please Mary whatever happened. He hoped he would remember what to say.

  “‘We are anxious to solace your old age…’”

  He repeated the words until he was sure he knew them by heart.

  MARY KNEW that the carefree days were over. Somet
imes, at night, she and François would lie in each other’s arms and talk of their fears.

  “I feel as though I am a ball, thrown this way and that,” whispered the King. “All these people who profess to love me do not love me at all. Mary, I am afraid of the Cardinal.”

  Mary was loyal, but she too, during the last weeks, had been conscious of a fear of the Cardinal. Yet she would not admit this. She had been too long in his care, too constantly assured of his love and devotion.

  “It is because he is so clever,” she said quickly. “His one thought is to serve you and make everything right for us both.”

  “Mary, sometimes I think they all hate each other—your uncles, my mother, the King of Navarre…. I think they all are waiting to tear me into pieces and that none of them loves me. I am nothing but a symbol.”

  “The Cardinal and the Duke love us both. They love me because I am their niece and you because you are their nephew.”

  “They love us because we are King and Queen,” asserted the King soberly. “My mother loves me because I am the King; she loves Charles because, if I die, he will be King; she loves Elisabeth because she is Queen of Spain. Claude she loves scarcely at all, because she is only the wife of the Duke of Lorraine. Margot and Hercule she does not love as yet. They are like wine set aside to mature. Perhaps they may be very good when their time comes, and perhaps no good at all. She will wait until she knows which, before she decides whether or not she loves them.”

  “She loves your brother Henri very much,” Mary reminded him. “Yet he could not be King unless you and Charles both die and leave no sons behind you.”

  “Everybody—even my mother—must do something sometimes without a reason. So she loves my brother Henri. Mary, how I wish we could go back to Villers-Cotterets and live quietly there. How I wish my father had never died and that we were not King and Queen. Is that a strange wish? So many would give everything they have in order to wear the crown, and I… who have it, would give away all I have—except you—if, by so doing, I could bring my father back.”

  “It is your grief, François, that makes you say that. Papa’s death was too sudden.”

  “It would be the same if I had known for years that he was going to die. Mary, we are but children, and King and Queen of France. Perhaps if my father had lived another ten or twenty years we should have been wiser… perhaps then we should not have been so frightened. Then I should have snapped my fingers at the Cardinal. I should have said: ‘I wish to greet my uncle, the King of Navarre, as befits his rank. I will take no orders from you, Monsieur le Cardinal. Have a care, sir, or you may find yourself spending the rest of your days in an oubliette in the Conciergerie!’ Oh, Mary, how easy it is to say it now. But when I think of saying it to him face-to-face I tremble. I wish he were not your uncle, Mary. I wish you did not love him so.”

  “I wish I did not.” The words had escaped her before she realized she was saying them.

  There were items of news which seeped through to her. The persecutions of the Huguenots had not ceased with the death of Henri, but rather had increased. The Cardinal had sworn to the Dukes of Alva and Savoy on the death of Henri that he would purge France of Protestants, not because the religious controversy was of such great importance to him but because he wished to be sure of the support of Philip of Spain for the house of Guise against that of Bourbon. He was eager now to show Philip that he would honor his vow.

  This persecution could not be kept from the young King and Queen. The Huguenots were in revolt; there was perpetual murmuring throughout the Court. Never had the prisons been so full. The Cardinal was determined to show the King of Spain that never would that monarch find such allies in France as the Guises.

  There was something else which Mary had begun to discover. This uncle who had been so dear to her, who had excited her with his strange affection, who had taught her her duty, who had molded her to his will, was hated—not only by her husband, but by many of the people beyond the Court.

  Anagrams were made on the name of Charles de Lorraine throughout the country as well as in the Court. “Hardi larron se cèle,” was murmured by daring men as the Cardinal passed. “Renard lasche le roi!” cried the people in the streets.

  Prophecies were rife. “He will not live long, this Cardinal of Lorraine,” said the people. “One day he will tread that path down which he has sent so many.”

  Great men, Mary might have told herself, often face great dangers. Yet she could not fail to know that beneath those scarlet robes was a padded suit, a precaution against an assassins dagger or bullet. Moreover the Cardinal had, in a panic, ordered that cloaks should no longer be “worn wide,” and that the big boots in which daggers could be concealed should be considerably reduced so that they could accommodate nothing but the owners feet. Every time Mary noticed the new fashions she was reminded that they had been dictated by a man who dispensed death generously to others while he greatly feared it for himself. It was said that the Guises went in fear of their lives but, while the Duke snapped his fingers at his enemies, the Cardinal was terrified of his.

  He is a coward, decided Mary with a shock.

  The fabric of romance which she had built up as a child in Scotland and which had been strengthened by her first years in France was beginning to split.

  She was vaguely aware of this as she held the boy King tightly in her arms. They were together—two children, the two most important children in France, and they were two desolate lonely ones. On either side of them stood those powerful Princes, the Guises and the Bourbons; and the Valois, represented by Catherine the Queen-Mother, Mary feared more than either Guise or Bourbon.

  THE COURT was moving south on its journey toward the borders of France and Spain. With it went the little bride of Philip of Spain, making her last journey through her native land. At each stage of the journey she seemed to grow a little more fearful, a little more wan. Mary, to whom she confided her fears, suffered with her in her deep sympathy.

  Francois’s health had taken a turn for the worse. Abscesses had begun to form inside his ear, and as soon as one was dispersed another would appear. Ambrose Paré, who was considered the cleverest doctor in the world, was kept in close attendance.

  Mary herself suffered periodic fits of illness, but they passed and left her well again. Her radiant health was gone, but if her beauty had become more fragile it was as pronounced as ever. There was still in her that which the Cardinal had called “promise”; there was still the hint of a passionate depth yet to be plumbed, and this was more appealing than the most radiant beauty, it seemed, for in spite of her impaired health, Mary continued to be the most attractive lady of the Court.

  They had traveled down to Chenonceaux, that most beautiful of all French châteaux, built in a valley and seeming to float on the water, protected by alder trees. The river flowing beneath it—for it was built on a bridge—acted as a defensive moat. It had always been a beautiful castle, but Diane had loved it and had employed all the foremost artists in France to add to its beauty. Henri had given it to her although Catherine had greatly desired it; and the Queen-Mother had never forgiven this slight. One of her first acts, on the death of her husband, was to demand the return of Chenonceaux. In exchange, she had been delighted to offer Diane the Château de Chaumont, which Catherine considered to have a spell on it, for she swore that she herself had experienced nothing but bad luck there, and while living in it had been beset by evil visions.

  As the royal party—complete with beds and furnishings, fine clothes and all the trappings of state—rode toward Chenonceaux, the Queen-Mother talked to the Queen of the improvements she intended for the château. She would have a new wing, and there should be two galleries—one on either side, so that when she gave a ball the flambeaux would illuminate the dancers from both sides of the ballroom. She would send to her native Italy for statues, for there were no artists in the world to compare with the Italians, as old King François had known; the walls should be hung with the finest t
apestries in the world and decorated with the most beautiful of carved marble.

  “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.