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

“Rest!” cried Francois, aware of Charles’s complacent smile. “I have no need of rest.”

Charles who had leaped from his horse, threw the reins to a groom and cried out: “Come, Francois, let us go and shoot at the butts. Mary, come and watch.”

Mary, impulsive as she was, hot-tempered and quick to anger, was even quicker to feel sympathy, particularly where those she loved were concerned. She had the endearing gift: of putting herself in the place of anyone who was uncomfortable or who suffered in any way, and she had seen the look of sheer exhaustion on her husband’s face as he said: “Come on then. I’m ready.”

She would not let him tire himself out. She took his arm and said pleadingly: “Oh, Francois, I did want to read my verses to you. I have scarcely seen you all day.”

With what tenderness he smiled into her eyes! Perhaps he knew that her desire was not to read her verses aloud but to see those tired limbs of his enjoy the rest they needed, and that his young brother should not have the pleasure of beating him at the butts.

Charles scowled. Mary saw that familiar clenching and unclenching of the hands.

She slipped her arm through that of Francois’s. “Come along. I insist. You must hear my verses.”

They left Charles to scowl after them as he shouted to his attendants: “Come … to the butts. I am not in the least tired. I can spend ten hours in the saddle and feel as fresh as when I started.”

Mary led Francois into the palace and made him lie down while she read to him. He was happy to be with her; he had ridden with Charles and shown that he could do these things; now he was free to do as he wished, to rest his exhausted body while Mary sat beside him, her hand in his, his subtle protectress who never showed the rest of the world how she stood between him and everything that hurt him.

After a while he slept and Mary drew the coverlet over him and left him.

She met Charles coming from the butts. He was with several of his attendants, but when he saw Mary he signed to them to go on. His eyes were wild as he looked at Mary; his lips curled unpleasantly. “Poor old Francois,” he said. “He was worn out.”

“You rode too far.”

“Not for me. I have something to say to you, Mary. It is very secret. Come to the window seat here. Then we shall not be overheard. Speak low, Mary. I have heard that Francois is very sick.”

“Francois is well,” said Mary quickly. “He has grown too fast in the last months and that tires him.”

“They are saying that he will never live to reach the throne.”

“They talk too much.”

“Mary… Mary… if he does not… when my father dies, I shall be King of France.”

“Your father will not die, and Francois will live.”

“If my father dies and Francois dies, you can still be Queen of France. I will marry you.”

He had taken her hands and was covering them with quick kisses.

Mary drew back in alarm. Here was another of those shocks which were coming to her too frequently. Charles had been a young boy not quite nine years old a few moments ago; now he was behaving like a man … a lover.

“I will love you as Francois never can,” said Charles. “He is too sick. Mary, when he dies, I will marry you … and he will die soon. I know he will.”

Mary snatched her hands away.

“You do not know what you are saying,” she cried, rising. Then, seeing the red blood tinge his face and begin to show in the whites of his eyes, she said soothingly: “I am glad you love me, Charles. But I am Francois’s wife and I hope I shall always be. Stay as you are… my little brother. That contents me.”

“It does not content me,” mumbled Charles.

The only way in which she could treat such an outburst was not to look upon it seriously. She smiled and left him, but her heart was beating furiously.

THE CARDINAL came to see her and asked to speak with her alone.

“My dearest niece,” he said, “you are looking pale. Perhaps there is a reason?”

“I was not very well yesterday, Uncle.”

The Cardinal could not hide his frown. “I had hoped there might be another reason.”

“What reason?” asked Mary.

“It is time a child was conceived.”

She blushed and the Cardinal said anxiously: “My child, I trust you do your duty.”

“Oh… yes.”

“It is imperative that you have a child. Francois knows that, does he not? You know it?”

“We both know it.”

“I wish the Dauphin had the manhood of some others. My poor sweet Mary, would to God …”

She waited, but he sighed deeply.

He went on after a pause: “One day you will understand how much I love you. There must be a child, Mary. There must. If Francois died and there was no child, what would be your position here in France, do you think?”

“I do not know.”

“Dearest, try to remember your duty as I have taught it. This is a matter which concerns not only yourself but our entire house. The family looks to you. Oh, my Mary, I know that that which should be a pleasure to you is a painful duty. I read your mind and you can hide nothing from me. I see it through your eyes… the shameful fumblings… the inadequate lover. Oh, that you might enjoy one worthy of you! Oh that you might be now, in this glory of your youth, the woman I see behind those gentle eyes. Ah, what pleasure, what transcendant joy for the one who would be fortunate enough to be your lover! Mary, there must be a child. Somehow, there must be a child.”

She trembled. She was frightened by the meaning she read in his words, by the realization that the world was so different from what it had at first seemed to be.

HENRI DE MONTMORENCY danced with her in the stately pavanne.

He complained: “I have little chance of speaking to you.”

She thought how handsome he was, how elegant. She understood now what his burning glances meant. She feared she had been very ignorant before. Life was not easy and simple and Henri de Montmorency did not cease to desire her because she was the wife of the Dauphin.

“I must tell you this,” he said. “I love you still.”

He was bold. He came from a bold family.

“Take care, Monsieur de Montmorency,” she said. “There are many of your enemies who watch you.”

“Dearest lady, it is you who should take care, for you have more enemies than I could ever have.”

“Enemies? I?”

“At the Court of France many are in love with you. I mean you yourself. But some are deep in hate for the Dauphine of France.”

“I do not know of these.”

“The Queen of England hates you. She will never forgive you. I have had news from England.”

“What have I done to her?”

“What they have made you do. You have questioned her right. You have established your belief in her bastardy and you have called yourself Queen of England. Others did this, I know, but it is you whom she will blame for it.”

Mary tossed her head. “She is far away and cannot reach me here. Ah, Monsieur de Montmorency, what do I care for the woman who calls herself the Queen of England? Talk of other things, I beg of you.”

“Your wish is a command. I will say that you grow more beautiful every day and that when I see you I am overwhelmed with love for you.”

“I did not mean that you should change the subject to speak to me thus,” said Mary, but she spoke in such a way as to imply that she did not forbid it. What harm was there in listening to such pleasant compliments from such an elegant young man!

DURING THE WEEKS which followed, Mary refused to think of the unpleasant. It was exciting to be the Dauphine and enjoy greater power than ever before. She had sent Madame de Paroy from her household, and Catherine had made no attempt to send the woman back to her. Catherine paid greater respect to Mary now, for she was conscious of rank; but Mary did not like her any better.