Royal Road to Fotheringhay - Plaidy Jean - Страница 18
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Flem and Beaton hurried to her anxiously, but she waved them aside. She had a headache; she would rest and she did not wish to be disturbed.
THE CURTAINS about Mary’s bed were silently withdrawn. Mary opened her eyes and saw, standing by the bed, the scarlet-clad figure of the Cardinal. She smelled the perfume of musk which accompanied him, and saw the glittering emeralds and rubies on his folded hands.
“Monsieur?” she cried, starting up.
“Nay, do not rise, my child,” he said; he sat on the bed and laid a hand on her hot forehead.
She lay back on her pillows.
“How lovely you are!” he murmured. “You are very beautiful, my dearest. But you are distressed now.”
“I… I came here to rest.”
“On the advice of Her Majesty!”
“I did not expect anyone would come in.”
“You would not have your guardian uncle kept out?”
“No… no… but…”
“Rest easily, my dear child. There is no need to be afraid. The Queen was right to suggest you should return to the palace. It is not good for one of your purity and budding beauty to be seen in intimate conversation with a young man of Montmorency’s reputation.”
“His… reputation!”
“Ah! You are startled. I see that you have more regard for this young man than I believed.”
“I did not know he had an evil reputation.”
“All young men have evil reputations.”
“That, Uncle, is surely not true.”
“Or they would,” went on the Cardinal, smiling, “if all their deeds and all their thoughts were known. They sport their jewels to show their worldly riches. What if they should wear their experiences to show their worldly wisdom, eh? Then our simple maidens might not so easily become their victims… their light-o’-loves to be discussed and dissected for their companions’ pleasure. Ah, you should hear the bawdy talk of some of these gallants when they are with others of their kind. You would be horrified. It is quite different from the sweet words which they employ as the prelude to seduction.”
“I will not be included among those simple maidens!”
“Indeed you shall not.” He slipped his arm under her and leaning forward, gazed into her face. He let his lips linger on her throat, and she felt her heart leap and pound. She could not move and it was as though she were bound by invisible cords. In his eyes there was a flame, in his arms a subtle pressure. Now he had unleashed this strange emotion which he had created; now it was about to envelop her. She was terrified, yet fascinated.
He was speaking softly. “Nay, you are no simple maiden, my dearest, my other self. My Mary, I love you as I have never loved anyone. Together we will explore the world of the spirit. You and I shall be as one, Mary, and together we will rule France.”
“I do not understand you….”
“You cannot expect to yet, but one day you will understand all that you are to me, and how I have preserved you and kept you sweet and pure.”
His mood had changed. The emotions were subdued. He sat up. He was smiling and his eyes were extraordinarily brilliant in his pale face.
“Mary,” he said, “in your bleak and savage country, I have heard, the men of the Border ravish towns and hamlets. They take the cattle; they take the women. And what do you think they do with these women? They rape them, Mary… in the village streets … on the village greens. They mock them. They insult and humiliate them in a hundred ways you cannot even imagine. That is your wild country; that is Scotland. Here we are supposed to be a civilized people. But are we? Some of these bejeweled gallants with their pretty looks and their flowery speeches, their odes to your beauty—they are very like your Borderers beneath their exquisite garments and their courtly manners. The Borderer rapes; our gallant seduces. The Borderer takes a woman as he would an apple; he discusses the flavor while he tastes. Our gallants pluck their apples in scented orchards; all is apparently decorous. But afterward, they discuss the flavor one with another. That is the difference between the Borderers of Scotland and our gallants. One, you might say, is at least candidly licentious; the other, under the cloak of gallantry, is full of deceit.”
“Why… why do you tell me this?”
“Because, ma mignonne, you are on the verge of womanhood. It is time you were honorably married. Holy Mother of God, your uncle Francois would run the young Montmorency through with his sword if he knew how he had insulted you in the gardens this day.”
“He did not insult me, Uncle. He was most chivalrous.”
“The first steps toward seduction, my dearest… the first indication that the scented couch is prepared. Even now we do not know that he will not boast of his success to his friends.”
“He dare not! He has nothing of which to boast.”
“The braggart will do very well on very little. I shall have him warned.
As for you, my dearest, you will not be seen in his company alone again. Do not let your manner change. Be friendly with him as you are with others. Only remember that he is another such as your Border raiders; remember that he is doing his utmost to lead you to seduction. Remember that he will note every weakness… any attention you may pay to his words. He will boast to his friends of an easy conquest, and we shall have them all trying to emulate him.”
Mary covered her burning cheeks with her hands.
“Please… Uncle… stop. I cannot bear such thoughts. It was nothing… nothing.”
The Cardinal kissed her forehead.
“My darling, I know it was nothing. Of course, it was nothing. My pure, sweet Mary, who shall remain pure and sweet for the heir of France.” He put his arm about her and held her against him. “If there should be one, other than the heir of France, it shall not be the son of the Constable!”
She caught her breath, for his lips were on hers. It was one of those moments when she sensed danger close. But almost immediately he had stood up and was smiling down on her.
“Rest, my beloved,” he said. “Rest and think on what I have told you.”
She lay still after he had gone, trying to shut out the thoughts which the Cardinal had aroused in her. She could not. She could no longer picture Henri de Montmorency as he had seemed to her that day in the gardens; he was a different person, laughing and leering, calling to others to come and see how he had humiliated the Queen of Scots.
She buried her face in her pillows trying in vain to shut out those pictures.
THE CARDINAL, deeply disturbed, sought out his brother.
“We must hurry on the marriage,” he said. “I am sure it is imperative that we should do so.”
The Duke looked grave. “With Mary so young and the Dauphin even younger…”
“There are two reasons which make it necessary for us to press the King until this marriage is accomplished. I have it from the Dauphin’s doctor that his health is failing fast. What if he were to die before Mary has married him?”
“Disaster!” cried the Duke. “Unless we could secure young Charles for her.”
“He’s nearly ten years younger, and it will be long before he is marriageable. No! Mary must be Dauphine of France before the year is out. I have another reason, brother. I saw her walking in the gardens with the son of our enemy.”
“That remark,” said Francois cynically, “might indicate the son of almost any man at Court. As our powers grow, so do our enemies. To which one do you refer?”
“Montmorency. The Queen was with me and I have an idea that she was delighted to see those two together. I fancy she tried to make more of the affair than was justified. She was quite coarse, and talked of a bed as the best place to cool Mary’s fever.”
“You alarm me, brother.”
“I mean to. There is reason for alarm. You are the hero of Paris, of all France. You have given back Calais to the King; you bear the mark of heroism on your cheek. The people look at the scar you bear there and cry: “Vive le Balafre!” At this moment you could demand the marriage, and the King would find it hard to refuse you. Take my advice, brother. This is our moment. We should not let it pass.”
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