Royal Road to Fotheringhay - Plaidy Jean - Страница 31
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Mary’s eyes went involuntarily to the gibbet from which hung the limp figure of the Sieur de la Renaudie. The body swayed slightly in the March breeze; oddly enough it seemed to mock all the sightseers on the balcony; it seemed to be jeering at them. He was dead, he seemed to imply as he swayed indifferently, and nothing further could be done to hurt him.
Francois took Mary’s hand and pressed it. She turned her sorrowing eyes to his; silently they pleaded with him to stop this cruelty. But who were they to stop it? Each day they realized more and more that they were powerless. They bore proud titles; the people bowed and called them King and Queen; that was the extent of their power. When Mary was told: “You are Queen of England!” she had no alternative but to allow herself to be called Queen of England. When the followers of the Sieur de la Renaudie were brought up from the dungeons of Amboise and slaughtered before the eyes of the women and children of the royal household in the King’s name, the King had no power to forbid such brutality.
It had been explained to them. These rebels had planned to kidnap the King and Queen and members of the royal family, to banish the Guises and, if the King refused to become a Protestant, to set up a new King on the throne. But if the Guises had enemies, they also had friends. The plot had been concocted with the aid of the English, but English Catholics had heard of it and warned the Duke of Guise, with the result that it had been foiled and many prisoners had been taken.
“And not a single conspirator shall be spared,” declared the Duke. “They shall all be brought up from their dungeons. This will be a lesson to traitors.”
Heads, recently severed from living bodies, made ugly the beautiful battlements of the castle. The stench of blood was everywhere. Some of the rebels had been tied in sacks and thrown into the river. The beautiful Loire was stained with blood. There was blood everywhere… the sight, the smell of blood.
And the royal House of France—even young Margot and Hercule among them—must look on at the slaying of tortured men. They must watch slow and cruel death being meted out.
The Duchesse de Guise had struggled to her feet. She turned and ran from the balcony. Her husband, her brother-in-law and her son watched her with contempt.
Mary said: “Francois… Francois … I too must go. These sights will haunt me forever.”
“They will not permit it, Mary,” whispered Francois. “The Duchesse may go, but not the King and Queen.”
“It must be stopped. Francois, you must stop it. I cannot bear it.”
The Duke was looking at her coldly, the Cardinal in astonishment.
“Your Majesty should resume your seat,” said the Cardinal. “Your Majesty sets a bad example to others present.”
The Duke cried: “My wife and now my niece! By the saints, this is a sad day for Guise and Lorraine.”
The Queen-Mother came forward and laid a hand on Mary’s shoulder. She looked at the Guises with understanding. She had been flirting with the Protestant cause and was anxious to show the powerful brothers—since they were at the moment in the ascendant—that she was with them.
“Your Majesty will never know how to reign if you do not learn how to administer justice,” she said.
Francois looked at his wife eagerly when she resumed her seat.
He took her hand and tried to soothe her. But she was sickened by the stench of blood. She would never think of Amboise after this, she was sure—dear, beloved Amboise from whose eminence she had looked down on the mingling streams of the Loire and the Amasse—without remembering this terrible day.
She knew, in that moment, that she was afraid not only of Catherine but of her uncles; never, until now, had she realized what an empty title she bore. Her dignity was touched; her anger grew. These terrible deeds were done in her name—hers and that of Francois. These poor men were crying for mercy to her and to Francois, and by sitting here, meekly looking on, she and Francois were registering their approval of the deeds which were done in their names.
She could not stop the slaughter; she knew that. But she would not sit quietly and see it done.
“I will not stay here, Francois,” she said firmly. “I will not.”
“Hush!” he soothed. “Hush, dearest! They will hear. We have to stay. They say so.”
“You are the King,” she murmured.
The color was glowing in her face now as she went on: “The King may remain if he wishes. The Queen shall not.”
She made to rise. Her uncle, the Cardinal, was beside her; she felt his hands forcing her into her seat.
“Francois,” she cried, “you are the King.”
And in that moment—for the first time in his life—Francois was the King.
He rose, and suddenly a new dignity came to him. He said: “Monsieur le Cardinal, I command you to take your hands from the Queen.”
There was silence on the balcony. In very astonishment the Cardinal had dropped his hands to his sides.
“You wish to go to your apartments?” said Francois to Mary.
His mother came forward. “My son,” she said, and there was the venom of the serpent in her cold eyes and her cold voice, “it is the duty of the King and Queen to see that justice is done. Remember you are the King.”
“I do remember, Madame,” said Francois. “And I would ask you to do so. You also, Cardinal. Come, Mary. You wish to retire. Then let us go.”
He took Mary’s hand and led her from the balcony. No one attempted to stop them. Francois, for one short moment, was indeed King of France.
FRANCOIS’S GLORY was short-lived. He had not the courage to sustain his new role. He realized that he had succeeded merely because he had taken those clever enemies of his by surprise.
The Cardinal’s long mouth continued to sneer at him, continued to command. His mother was forever at his side. He was growing weaker. There was an abscess in his ear which caused him great pain, and Monsieur Pare could do little to ease it. Each day his strength seemed to wane.
He knew that the people did not love him and that they blamed him for the terrible things which were happening under the reign of the Guises.
Rumors concerning the young King spread throughout the country.
“The King suffers from a wasting disease,” was whispered. “It is terrible in its consequences and a miracle that he lives at all. He only does so by drinking the blood of freshly killed babies.”
Wherever the King rode, the people called their children to them in terror; they bolted and barred their doors in the villages through which he passed.
“When my father rode abroad,” said Francois sadly, “the people hurried out to greet him. It was the same with my grandfather. Yet they shrink from me; they run from me; they hate and fear me. My father—good man though he was—was responsible for the death of many; my grandfather too. Yet they loved these Kings and they run from me who have killed no one. Oh, Mary, life is so unfair. Why was I born like this? Why was I not born tall and strong like my father and my grandfather? Why cannot I be a king, since I am born a king … as they were? Why do I have to be the tool of the Cardinal? I hate the Cardinal. I hate him… hate him….”
The Cardinal had come into the room. He was smiling slyly, but Francois’s grief was too deep for him to care for the Cardinal’s contempt. He ran to the man, grasped his padded robes and shook him.
He cried: “I believe it is you they hate. I do not believe it is their King. They know I would not hurt them. It is you they hate… you… you! Why don’t you leave us alone? Why don’t you go away—then we shall know whom it is the people hate… you or me… you or me.” Francois’s voice rose to a shriek as he cried: “Renard lasche le roi!” Then he turned away and covered his face with his hands.
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