Виктория Холт - Royal Road to Fotheringhay

There was a woman standing in the doorway, a woman with a pale flat face and expressionless eyes. Mary took an immediate dislike to her, for she had brought something into the room which Mary did not understand and which was repellent to her. The woman was dressed without magnificence and Mary assumed that she was a noblewoman of minor rank. Hot-tempered as she was, she let her anger rise against the intruder.

As Queen of the nursery, the spoiled charge of easy-going Lady Fleming, the petted darling of almost everyone with whom she had come into contact since her arrival in this country, fresh from her triumph with the King, she said quickly: “Pray do not interrupt us while we practice.”

The woman did not move. She laughed suddenly and unpleasantly. The little French children had stepped forward and knelt before her. Over their heads she regarded the Queen of Scots.

“What will you do, Mademoiselle?” asked the woman. “Are you going to turn me out of my nurseries?”

“Madame,” said Mary, drawing herself to her full height, “it is the Queen of Scotland to whom you speak.”

“Mademoiselle,” was the reply, “it is the Queen of France to whom you speak.”

“N-No!” protested Mary. But the kneeling children had made her aware of the unforgivable mistake she had made. She was terrified. She would be sent back to Scotland for such behavior. She had been guilty not only of a great breach of good manners; she had insulted the Queen of France.

“Madame,” she began, “I humbly beg …”

Again the harsh laugh rang out; but Mary scarcely heard it as she knelt before the Queen, first pale with horror, then red with shame.

“We all make mistakes,” said Catherine de Médicis, “even Queens of such great countries as Scotland. You may rise. Let me look at you.”

As Mary obeyed she realized that there were two queens: one lovely and loving who came with the King, who kissed the children and called them hers and behaved in every way as though she were their mother, and another who came alone, who frightened them and yet, it seemed, was after all their mother and the true Queen of France.

TO MARY, LIFE IN THOSE FIRST MONTHS WAS FULL OF PLEASURE. It was true there were times when the Queen of France would come silently into the nursery, laugh her sudden loud laughter, make her disconcerting remarks, and when little François and Elisabeth would, while displaying great decorum, shrink closer to Mary as though asking her to protect them. But Mary was gay by nature and wished to ignore that which was unpleasant.

Often King Henri and Madame Diane came to the nursery to play with them, to caress them and make them feel secure and contented. It had not taken Mary long to discover that if Queen Catherine were Queen in name, Diane was Queen in all else.

Mary noticed that, when Catherine and Diane were together in the nursery, Catherine seemed to agree with all Diane’s suggestions. Being young, being fierce in love and hate, young Mary could not resist flashing a look of triumph at the Queen’s flat, placid features at such times.

She is a coward! thought Mary. She is not fit to be a queen.

The four Marys were now added to the little Queens adoring circle, but the Dauphin had become her first care. All those who saw Mary and the Dauphin together—except Queen Catherine—declared they had never seen such a charming love affair as that between the Dauphin and his bride-to-be. As for little Madame Elisabeth, she became one of Mary’s dearest friends, sharing her bedchamber and following her lead in all things.

It was at the wedding of her uncle François Duc d’Aumale that she met this important man for the first time. He looked very like the knight she had pictured during her childhood in Scotland and she was not disappointed in the eldest of her uncles. François de Guise, Duc d’Aumale, was tall and handsome; his beard was curled; his eyes were flashing; and he was gorgeously appareled. He was ready to become—as he soon was to be—the head of the illustrious family of Guise. He filled the role of bridegroom well, as he did that of greatest soldier in the land. His bride was a fitting one for such a man. She was Anne d’Esté, the daughter of Hercule, Duke of Ferrara, and was herself royal, for her mother was King Henri’s aunt.

There was a good deal of whispering in the Court concerning the marriage. “Watch these Guises,” said suspicious noblemen. “They look to rule France one way or another. Old Duke Claude had not the ambition of his sons; that doubtless came from their Bourbon mother. But Duke Claude, who was content with the hunt, his table and his women, is not long for this world and then this Due d’Aumale will become the Duc de Guise, and he looks higher than his father ever did.

Mary heard nothing of these whisperings. To her the marriage was just another reason for merriment, for wearing fine clothes, for showing off her graces, for being petted and admired for her beauty and charm.

So there she was in the salle de bau stepping out to dance with the Dauphin, enchanting all with her grace and her beauty and her tender devotion to the heir of France.

“Holy Mother of God!” swore the Due d’Aumale. “There goes the greatest asset of the House of Guise. One day we shall rule France through that lovely girl.”

LATER HE TALKED with his brother Charles. Charles, five years younger than his brother François, was equally handsome though in a different way. François was flamboyantly attractive but Charles had the features of a Greek god. Charles’s long eyes were alert and cynical. François would win his way through boldness, Charles by cunning. Charles was the cleverer of the two, and knowing himself to lack that bravery on which the family prided itself, he had to develop other qualities to make up for the lack.

So Charles, the exquisite Cardinal, with his scented linen and his sensuality, was an excellent foil to his dashing brother; they were both aware of this, and they believed that between them they could rule France through their niece who in her turn would rule the Dauphin.

They had brought rich presents for Mary; they were determined to win her affection and to increase that respect which their sister, the Queen-Mother of Scotland, had so rightly planted in her daughter’s mind.

The Cardinal, whose tastes were erotic and who, although he was quite a young man, was hard pressed to think of new sensations which could delight him, was quite enchanted with his niece.

“For, brother,” he said, “she has more than beauty. There is in her… shall we call it promise? What could be more charming than promise? She is like a houri from a Mohammedan paradise, beckoning the newcomer to undreamed of delight, inviting him to explore with her that which she herself has not yet discovered.”

François looked at his brother uneasily. “Charles, for God’s sake, do not forget that she is your niece.”

Charles smiled. Blood relationships were of no account in his world of licentiousness. His long slim fingers a-glitter with jewels which put those adorning his brother’s person in the shade, stroked his cardinal’s robes. Did he enjoy being a man of the church so much because, in his relationships with charming people, that fact added an extra relish? François was a blunt soldier for all that he was a Guise and destined, Charles was sure, to be one of the great men of his day. Rough soldier—he took the satisfaction of his carnal appetites as a soldier takes them. Charles was selective, continually striving for the new sensation.

“My dear brother,” he said, “do you take me for a fool? I shall know how to deal with our niece. She is a little barbarian at the moment, from a land of barbarians. We shall teach her until she is cultured and even more charming than she already is. But the material is excellent, François, excellent.” The Cardinal waved his beautiful hands describing the shape of a woman. “Beautiful… malleable material, dear François.”