Royal Road to Fotheringhay - Plaidy Jean (читать книги полностью без сокращений .txt) 📗

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 Francois 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 Brantome, the writer, assured her that her beauty radiated like the sun in the noonday sky. Her uncle, Francois, 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 Francois, 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 Francois. 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 Pleiade”

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 Baif 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 Pleiade—seven of us—and with myself, du Bellay and Baif as the leaders, the Pleiade 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 Francois 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.”