Royal Road to Fotheringhay - Plaidy Jean - Страница 39
- Предыдущая
- 39/102
- Следующая
Mary knelt and took the cold hand. What were those expressionless eyes telling her? You have stepped down from your pedestal and I am in control now. Do not expect friendship from one whose friendship you never sought. You have learned one lesson in France, Mary Stuart. You have learned what a fool you have been to flout Catherine de Medicis, that daughter of tradesmen.
HER UNCLES came to see her. They had changed since Francois’s death. Their power had been stripped from them. Anne de Montmorency had been recalled; the Queen-Mother was now the Regent of France and it was said that she had complete control over the nine-year-old King. Overnight she had stepped into that position which, during the reign of Francois and Mary, had been filled by the brothers Guise.
How to recover that position! That was the urgent concern of Francois de Guise and Charles de Lorraine.
“We have come to discuss the future, Mary,” said the Duke.
“I do not wish to go to Scotland,” said Mary quickly.
“Nor do we wish you to,” the Cardinal assured her. “If all we have in mind shall come to pass, there would be no need of that.”
“Many suitors are presenting themselves,” the Duke told her. “There are Frederick of Denmark and Eric of Sweden—” began the Duke.
“None of whom we feel are worthy of you,” put in the Cardinal.
“There is Arran, whom his father is urging forward,” added the Duke; “although he himself is most eager to come.”
“Poor Arran!” murmured Mary.
“They say his brain is soft,” said the Cardinal, “and has been since he set eyes on you when he was at Court. They say he was first sick with love, and then mad with love for the most beautiful girl in the world. We should not wish you to make so poor a match.”
“Tell her of that other youth,” interrupted the Duke.
The Cardinal’s smile was a sneer. “What impudence! There has arrived at the Court one whose mother has sent him to offer condolences for your loss. Condolences, indeed! The youth is delighted by your loss! That is, if he has the sense to understand what his mother must have been at great pains to hammer into his head. He comes full of hopes… conscious of his royalty … a youth of fifteen, a tall, gangling boy, unsure of anything but that he has royal blood in his veins. He comes to offer condolences from his parents to their kinswoman and to express the hope—oh, most subtly—that if Your Majesty should be looking for another husband, you might be enchanted by a fellow like himself.”
“Who is this?” asked Mary.
“Young Henry Darnley, whose mother, Lennox’s wife, will have all the world know that as she was the daughter of Margaret Tudor, sister of Henry the Eighth of England, her son is not without some pretension to the throne of England… and of Scotland too. Madame Lennox presents her long lean son for your inspection. I dare swear she thinks that, once having clapped your eyes on him, you’ll find it hard to refuse him your bed, your crown, and all that is yours.”
“My dear uncles, I am pained by all this talk of marriage. It is too soon as yet. I have so recently been a wife, so short a time a widow.”
The Duke showed impatience, but the Cardinal laid his arm about her shoulders. “My dearest,” he murmured, “there should be no wedding for a reasonable time. But your affairs are of great moment… not only to us but to the whole world. Do you want to be treated continually as you have been treated since the death of Francois? Do not tell me! I know that Catherine has made you feel your position keenly. You are a queen and queenly. You would never be happy in a lowly state. You were meant to rule. Your proud carriage says so. Your dignity demands it. That is why we have two matches in mind for you—either would bring you great glory. The first is with the King of France.”
Mary cried in terror: “But Charles… Charles … he is not entirely sane. He … he frightens me.”
“Frightens you?” said the Duke. “A King of France frightens you!”
“A madman frightens me,” she retorted. “You talk of the children I might have… with a madman as their father!”
“Madness is no deterrent to fertility,” asserted the Duke.
“Mary,” soothed the Cardinal, “you would never shirk your duty… I know. You could be Queen of France again. You could stay in the land you love. There is no other Court—save one—worthy of you.”
“The Court of Spain!” put in the Duke triumphantly. “Don Carlos, son of great Philip, has need of a wife. We have approached the King of Spain and he is not averse to the match. He wishes to see Scotland firmly settled in the Catholic Faith. Think, Mary. One day the crown of Spain may be yours.”
“It is too soon,” pleaded Mary. “I beg of you… leave me now.”
The Cardinal put his arm about her and said softly: “The Queen of Spain… the mightiest throne in all Europe … a young husband who will adore you. You will be reuinted with your dear little friend Elisabeth who is now the Queen of Spain herself. Oh, Mary, some people are born for distinction. You are one of them.”
She closed her eyes. She felt so weary. A terrible depression had come over her. She wished to be alone that she might throw herself onto her bed and weep.
MARY COULD NOT help liking the youth who brought such kind messages from his mother. Henry Darnley was handsome. His large blue eyes and fair hair were almost feminine in their charm; and his manners were not without grace, though naturally seeming a little rough compared with those of the French courtiers.
Mary was sorry for his shyness and tried to make him feel at ease, to forget she was the Queen by reminding him that they were cousins.
“Your Majesty is gracious,” he told her.
When she asked him to play the lute for her—she had heard that he was a master of that instrument—he was glad to do so, and she listened with delight; he played quite charmingly.
He told her he wrote poetry also and he brought her some verses he had written for her. She was delighted with them. They made a poor showing against the polished artistry of Ronsard and his fellow poets but they had good feeling in them, as she told him.
He could dance well and was an enthusiastic follower of the chase. His conversation was of sport and pleasure.
When he left after his brief stay at Court, she was sorry to see him go, but in a day she had forgotten him.
WHEN THE COURT left for Fontainebleau Mary went with it. The Queen-Mother was coolly polite to her, but beneath the veneer of politeness there was an insolence. It was as though she knew some exciting secret which concerned Mary, and which she longed to impart. It must be unpleasant, thought Mary, otherwise it would not have pleased Catherine so much.
Whenever the King saw Mary he would gaze longingly at her. There were times when it appeared as though he would throw himself upon her, and yet always he seemed to be conscious of the invisible restraining hand. It was almost uncanny, but then the power of the Queen-Mother was uncanny.
She was thinking more and more about the journey to Spain. It was alarming to consider Don Carlos. Was he really as degenerate as rumor suggested? He was but a boy. There had been evil rumors concerning Francois, but how happy she had been with him!
There was one thing she dreaded more than all others: return to Scotland.
Her optimism, never long absent, returned to her during those difficult weeks. She would not return to Scotland. Everything could be easily arranged. Her brother, Lord James, longed for the Regency. Let him have it. It was his great desire to govern Scotland; it was her great desire to stay away from Scotland. She would face the truth. She loved to be gay, and the Scots looked on gaiety as a sin. There was no comfort in their castles; there were no merry dances, no versifying, no pleasant pastimes. Scotland was straining towards Puritanism and Mary Stuart could never be a Puritan.
- Предыдущая
- 39/102
- Следующая
