Royal Road to Fotheringhay - Plaidy Jean - Страница 40
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Now that her uncles had retired from Court her new position was brought home to her afresh. At Fontainebleau the Earl of Bedford and the English ambassador, Sir Nicholas Throgmorton, called upon her; and there was no one to advise her how to deal with these gentlemen.
They surveyed her with solemn dignity. They were aloof and cool.
Inexperienced as she was, hurt and humiliated by Catherine, she allowed herself to show a haughtiness which was dictated by her hot temper rather than a considered diplomatic attitude. It had been all very well to flout the English when she was the wife of the King of France; now she stood alone; she was merely the Queen of a small country whose affairs were in disorder.
“The Queen of England,” Bedford began, “requires the immediate ratification of the Edinburgh treaty.”
She knew that the Edinburgh treaty claimed for Elizabeth the sole right to the throne of England and that Mary Stuart should recognize her as such “for all time coming.”
She was not pleased by the Englishmen’s arrogant attitude toward her. They implied that their Queens will should be Mary’s. She was bewildered, inexperienced in dealing with such situations alone, so she obeyed those inclinations dictated by her pride.
Her uncles and Henri of France had assured her that she was the rightful heir to England. At the moment she was in decline but she would not always be so. One day she might be Queen of Spain and then these Englishmen would think twice before addressing her as they did now.
She said: “My lords, I shall not sign the treaty of Edinburgh.”
“It has been signed in Edinburgh, Madame.”
“But it would seem that it does not become valid until you have my signature.”
This they could not deny.
Here was another of those moments of folly, the result of hurt pride and ignorance.
“Then, my lords, I will say to you that I cannot give you the signature for which you ask. I must have time to ponder the matter.”
Exasperated, they left her. They wrote to their mistress; and Elizabeth of England vowed that she would never forgive—and never trust—her Scottish kinswoman as long as that beautiful head remained on those elegant shoulders.
SHE TRAVELED down to Rheims to stay for a while with her aunt, Renee de Guise, at the Abbey Saint-Pierre-les-Dames. Renee, the sister of those ambitious uncles, was quite unlike them. Perhaps she, a member of that mighty and ambitious family, had felt the need to escape to a nunnery in order to eschew that ambition which was at the very heart of the family’s tradition.
There was quietness with Renee, but Mary did not want quiet. She was restless.
Renee, knowing that Mary was troubled, tried to help her through prayer. Mary realized that Renee was suggesting that if she too would shun ambition—as Renee had done—she might find peace in a life of dedication to prayer and service to others.
Mary, emotional in the extreme, thought for a short time—a very short time—of the peace to be found within convent walls. But when she looked in her mirror and saw her own beautiful face, and thought of dancing and masking with herself the centre of attention, when she remembered the admiration she had seen in the eyes of those men who surrounded her, she knew that whatever she had to suffer in the future—even if it meant returning to Scotland—it was the only life that would be acceptable to her.
With Renee she did become more deeply religious; she was even fired with a mission. Her country was straining toward Calvinism, and she would bring it back to the Church which she felt to be the only true one.
“But not,” she told Renee, “with torture and the fire, not with the thumbscrews and the rack. Perhaps I am weak, but I cannot bear to see men suffer, however wrong they are. Even though I knew the fires of hell lay before them, I could not torment myself by listening to their cries, and if I ever countenanced the torture, I believe those cries would reach me, though I were miles away.”
Renee smiled at Mary’s fierceness. She said: “You are Queen of a country that is strongly heretic. It is your duty to return to it and save it from damnation. You are young and weak … as yet. But the saints will show you how to act.”
Mary shuddered and, when she thought of that land in the grip of Calvin and his disciple Knox, she prayed that King Philip would agree to her marriage with his son, or perhaps, better still, she need never leave her beloved France. If Charles broke free of his mother’s influence, his first act would be to marry Mary Stuart.
To Rheims at this time came her relations on a visit to the Cardinal. The Duke arrived with his mother, and there followed Mary’s two younger uncles, the Due d’Aumale and the Marquis d’Elboeuf.
There were many conferences regarding Mary’s marriage into Spain.
The Cardinal took her to his private chamber and there he tried to revive their old relationship. But she had grown up in the last month and some of her innocence had left her. The Cardinal seemed different. She noticed the lines of debauchery on his face, and how could she help knowing that his love for her depended largely on her ability to give him that which he craved: power? She was no longer the simple girl she had been.
She was aloof and bewildered. It was no use, his drawing her gently to him, laying his fine hands on her, soothing and caressing, bringing her to that state of semi-trance when her will became subservient to his. She saw him more clearly now, and she saw a sly man. She already knew that he was a coward; and she believed that his love for her had diminished in proportion to her loss of power and usefulness.
Marriage with France. Marriage with Spain. They were like two bats chasing each other around in his brain; and he was the wily cat not quite quick enough to catch one of them. But perhaps there was another—more agile, more happily placed than he. Catherine continually foiled him. He was wishing he could slip the little “Italian morsel” into her goblet, as she was no doubt wishing she could slip it into his.
If he could but remove Catherine he would have Mary married to Charles in a very short time.
To Rheims came the news which sent the spirits of the whole family plunging down to deep depression.
Philip of Spain sent word that he would find it inconvenient, for some time to come, to continue with the negotiations for a marriage between his son Don Carlos and Mary Stuart.
Catherine de Medicis stood between Mary and the King of France. She had—by working in secret—insinuated herself between Mary and the heir of Spain.
Catherine was going to bring about that which she had long desired: the banishment from France of the young and beautiful Queen who had been such a fool as to show herself no friend to Catherine de Medicis.
Word came from Lord James Stuart. He was coming to France to persuade his sister that it was time she returned to her realm.
SO SHE WAS to leave the land she loved. The Court buzzed with the news. This was farewell to the dazzling Mary Stuart.
She tried to be brave, but there was a great fear within her.
She told her Marys: “It will only be for a short time. Soon I shall marry. Do not imagine we shall stay long in Scotland; I am sure that soon King Philip will continue with the arrangements for my marriage to Don Carlos.”
“It will be fun to go to Scotland for a while,” said Flem.
“They’ll soon find a husband for you,” declared Beaton.
While she too could think thus Mary felt almost gay. It would only be a temporary exile, and she would take with her many friends from the Court of France.
Henri de Montmorency, who had now become the Sieur d’Amville since the return of his father to power, whispered to her: “So France is to lose Your Majesty!”
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