Royal Road to Fotheringhay - Plaidy Jean - Страница 27

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He was glad to see Mary, but wished she had come alone; and particularly he wished that she had not brought the Cardinal with her.

He tried to look as a king should look; he tried to behave as his father had. But how could he? In the presence of this man he could only feel that he was a lily-livered girl masquerading as a king.

“Your Majesty is gracious to receive me,” said the Cardinal, and as he took the King’s hand, noticed that it was trembling.

“My uncle the Cardinal has something to say to you, dearest,” Mary announced.

“Mary,” said Francois, “stay here. Do not go.”

She smiled at him reassuringly. The Cardinal, signing to them to sit on their chairs of state, stood before them.

“Your Majesty well knows that your enemies abound,” he said. “Your position has changed suddenly and you will forgive me, Sire, if I remind you that you are as yet very young.”

The King moved uneasily in his chair. His eyes sought Mary’s and sent out distress signals.

“There is one,” continued the Cardinal, “whom it will be necessary for Your Majesty to remove from his sphere of influence without delay. I do not need to tell you that I refer to Anne de Montmorency, at present the Constable of France.”

“The… the Constable…,” stammered Francois, thinking of the old man who alarmed him only slightly less than the sardonic Cardinal himself.

“He is too old for his office, and Your Majesty’s first duty will be to summon him to your presence. Now this is what you will say to him—it is quite simple and it will make the position clear. ‘We are anxious to solace your old age which is no longer fit to endure the toil and hardship of service.’ That is all. He will give up the Seals, and Mary is of the opinion that they should be given to the two men whom you know you can trust. Mary has suggested her uncles, the Duke of Guise and myself.”

“But…,” murmured Francois, “the Constable!”

“He is an old man. He is not trustworthy, Sire. He has been in the hands of your enemies, a prisoner after Saint Quentin. What plight would France be in now had not my brother hurried to the scene of that disaster? As all France knows, Francois de Guise saved Your Majesty’s crown and your country from defeat. Mary, your beloved Queen, agrees with me. She wishes to help you in all things. She wishes to spare you some of the immense load of responsibility. That is so, is it not, Mary?”

The caressing hand was pressed warmly on her shoulder. She felt her will merge in his. He was right, of course. He was her beloved uncle who had been her guide and counselor, her spiritual lover, ever since she came to France.

“Yes, Francois,” she agreed, “I want to help you. It is too big a load for you, because you are not old and experienced. I long to help you, and so does my uncle. He is wise and knows what is best.”

“But, Mary, the Constable? And there is my mother—”

“Your mother, Sire, is wrapped up in her grief. She is a widow mourning her husband. You can understand what that means. She must not be troubled with these matters of state. As yet she could not give her mind to them.”

“You must do as my uncle says, Francois,” insisted Mary. “He knows. He is wise and you must do as he says.”

Francois nodded. It must be right; Mary said so; and, in any case, he wished to please Mary whatever happened. He hoped he would remember what to say.

“‘We are anxious to solace your old age…’”

He repeated the words until he was sure he knew them by heart.

MARY KNEW that the carefree days were over. Sometimes, at night, she and Francois would lie in each other’s arms and talk of their fears.

“I feel as though I am a ball, thrown this way and that,” whispered the King. “All these people who profess to love me do not love me at all. Mary, I am afraid of the Cardinal.”

Mary was loyal, but she too, during the last weeks, had been conscious of a fear of the Cardinal. Yet she would not admit this. She had been too long in his care, too constantly assured of his love and devotion.

“It is because he is so clever,” she said quickly. “His one thought is to serve you and make everything right for us both.”

“Mary, sometimes I think they all hate each other—your uncles, my mother, the King of Navarre…. I think they all are waiting to tear me into pieces and that none of them loves me. I am nothing but a symbol.”

“The Cardinal and the Duke love us both. They love me because I am their niece and you because you are their nephew.”

“They love us because we are King and Queen,” asserted the King soberly. “My mother loves me because I am the King; she loves Charles because, if I die, he will be King; she loves Elisabeth because she is Queen of Spain. Claude she loves scarcely at all, because she is only the wife of the Duke of Lorraine. Margot and Hercule she does not love as yet. They are like wine set aside to mature. Perhaps they may be very good when their time comes, and perhaps no good at all. She will wait until she knows which, before she decides whether or not she loves them.”

“She loves your brother Henri very much,” Mary reminded him. “Yet he could not be King unless you and Charles both die and leave no sons behind you.”

“Everybody—even my mother—must do something sometimes without a reason. So she loves my brother Henri. Mary, how I wish we could go back to Villers-Cotterets and live quietly there. How I wish my father had never died and that we were not King and Queen. Is that a strange wish? So many would give everything they have in order to wear the crown, and I… who have it, would give away all I have—except you—if, by so doing, I could bring my father back.”

“It is your grief, Francois, that makes you say that. Papa’s death was too sudden.”

“It would be the same if I had known for years that he was going to die. Mary, we are but children, and King and Queen of France. Perhaps if my father had lived another ten or twenty years we should have been wiser… perhaps then we should not have been so frightened. Then I should have snapped my fingers at the Cardinal. I should have said: ‘I wish to greet my uncle, the King of Navarre, as befits his rank. I will take no orders from you, Monsieur le Cardinal. Have a care, sir, or you may find yourself spending the rest of your days in an oubliette in the Conciergerie!’ Oh, Mary, how easy it is to say it now. But when I think of saying it to him face-to-face I tremble. I wish he were not your uncle, Mary. I wish you did not love him so.”

“I wish I did not.” The words had escaped her before she realized she was saying them.

There were items of news which seeped through to her. The persecutions of the Huguenots had not ceased with the death of Henri, but rather had increased. The Cardinal had sworn to the Dukes of Alva and Savoy on the death of Henri that he would purge France of Protestants, not because the religious controversy was of such great importance to him but because he wished to be sure of the support of Philip of Spain for the house of Guise against that of Bourbon. He was eager now to show Philip that he would honor his vow.

This persecution could not be kept from the young King and Queen. The Huguenots were in revolt; there was perpetual murmuring throughout the Court. Never had the prisons been so full. The Cardinal was determined to show the King of Spain that never would that monarch find such allies in France as the Guises.

There was something else which Mary had begun to discover. This uncle who had been so dear to her, who had excited her with his strange affection, who had taught her her duty, who had molded her to his will, was hated—not only by her husband, but by many of the people beyond the Court.

Anagrams were made on the name of Charles de Lorraine throughout the country as well as in the Court. “Hardi larron se cele,” was murmured by daring men as the Cardinal passed. “Renard lasche le roi!” cried the people in the streets.

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