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

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 Pare, 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 chateaux, 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 Chateau 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 chateau. 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 Francois had known; the walls should be hung with the finest tapestries 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 chateau, 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 Francois 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 Francois died, Catherine’s son, Charles, would not be King; and Catherine was longing for the moment when Charles should mount the throne. Francois 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 Francois 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 Francois 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 chateau! She says that Chaumont is full of ghosts. I wonder the ghost of the dead King does not come and haunt her here.”