The Dauphin flushed scarlet and did not know where to look. He was near to tears. He knew that he had been right to fear the Cardinal who had brought discord into this Eden.
The Cardinals long mouth sneered. “Tell me,” he said, “I am right, am I not, when I say that Mary has been disappointed in her lover?”
“Mary does not want…”
“Mary does not want! Of course she wants!”
“But she said…”
“Holy Virgin, have you been such a laggard in love as to ask her what she wants in the matter?” The Cardinal laughed aloud. “Your grandfather, great François, would rise in his grave and come to you with a horsewhip if he knew. You have betrayed the honor of France and the Valois.”
“But if we wish … if we do not want…”
“Poor Mary! So I now understand why she is sick. She is pining. Holy Mother of God! Holy saints! Listen to the boy. He is a poor impotent weakling who begs his wife not to make any demands on his manhood. My boy, all France will reject you. Are you a Frenchman then? Are you the heir of France? Now I know why Mary is sad. Now I know why she pines and droops. She was promised marriage, and she has been given… what? I know not. I dare not think. My poor niece! My poor, poor niece!”
“How… how… dare you!” stammered François. “Remember you speak to the Dauphin.”
“Remember it! I would to God I could forget it. I would I did not belong to this land, the heir of which is a lily-livered timorous girl, masquerading as a man.”
“I … I will tell the King.”
“I beg of you, do not. Do not bring down sorrow on his silver hairs. Do not bring shame to his royal crown. Do not let him know that he has fathered an unnatural monster with whom the most beautiful girl in all France has been unfortunate enough to marry.”
“You have come here to torment me then!”
The Cardinal seized the boys arm. His face was a mask of piety as he raised his eyes to the sky. “No, my son. I have come here to see that you do your duty, not only to my niece but to your ancestors.”
The Dauphins face quivered. “I… I…”
The Cardinal released him and laid an arm about his shoulders. “My dear boy,” he said gently, “my beloved Dauphin, I have been harsh. Sometimes one must be cruel to be kind. I wish to help you. I know how young you are and that you have not had the good health of some of your companions. You have not roamed the countryside with them and partaken in their manly sports and pastimes. My dearest boy, believe me, I wish to help you. I am your confessor, your priest. It is my place to help you. This marriage must be consummated without delay. It is your duty.” He laughed gently. “Ah, that from which you shrink will give you great joy. Do you remember when you first mounted a horse? You were afraid then. The ground seemed so far away. You were terrified that you would fall. In your heart you hoped that you would never have to ride again. But now you are glad you learned to ride. So it will be in this matter. If you are frightened, if you run away from your duty, you will be ashamed for the rest of your life. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” said the Dauphin.
The Cardinal pressed his shoulder warmly. “I knew that you would. You will grow strong and noble. You will be a man, a worthy successor to your father.”
They returned to the palace.
“Do not mention to Mary what I have said,” warned the Cardinal. “That would be folly. It would not please her to know that it had been necessary to force her husband to his duty.”
The Dauphins face was set and determined. He was no longer the happy bridegroom. A duty lay before him, the execution of which frightened him.
The Cardinal saw his niece before he left. He did not intend to stay. He never made the mistake of overemphasis. If, when the honeymoon was over, the marriage had not been consummated, he would have to consider other methods. What he had done so far would suffice and was, he felt sure, almost certain to succeed.
It had been the wish of the King that the young people should be left entirely to themselves. The King was sentimental where children were concerned, and he remembered the trials of his own early marriage. As for the Queen, she had no wish for the marriage to be consummated, but the Cardinal believed that her wishes were not founded on sentiment.
The consummation of the marriage was vital to the house of Guise; therefore that consummation should take place.
“And it shall!” mused the Cardinal, as he rode away from Villers-Cotterets. “I have injected some manhood into that ungainly mass of corrupting flesh which calls itself Dauphin of France. I am only sorry that my darling should have been given such an unworthy partner in her first excursion into the delights of the flesh.”
THE KING came down to Villers-Cotterets. He had heard that Mary had been ill and that the Dauphin was less happy than he had been on his arrival.
The King came without ceremony, riding there on a hunting expedition.
The young couple were delighted to see him. He scanned their faces eagerly. He was moved as he gazed at them; they were such children, and did he not know what it meant to be a young husband? He remembered even now with a shudder his first weeks of marriage.
“And how are you both, my dear children?” he asked as he embraced them.
“We are very happy, Papa,” they assured him.
Mary was pale; that would be explained by her malady, but the Dauphin seemed shamefaced. They did not tell the King that their happiness had lasted until they had been compelled to indulge in a nightly duty which was distasteful to them both. Henri did not ask. He remembered his own agonies when his witty father had made brilliant remarks to his young son.
They will grow out of it, he promised himself. They are so fond of each other. François turns to her for everything, and she is as ready to comfort him and humor him as she ever was.
Yet so concerned was the King that he decided he would separate the newly married pair for a few weeks and see what effect it had.
“François,” he said, “I wish you to join the camp at Amiens. Honeymoons cannot last forever, you know.”
“No, Papa.”
The King saw the fear leap into the boy’s eyes. He dreaded leaving Mary and Villers-Cotterets for the camp where there would be rough soldiers.
“You will be able to show your skill on horseback,” said his father. “And, my boy, remember you are the Dauphin. Your people will wish to see you. Do not be afraid of them. There is nothing to fear. Remember, one day you will be their King.”
So to the camp at Amiens went François. Mary stayed at Villers-Cotterets, which the King felt would be healthier for her than Paris. He sent her four Marys to her to compensate her for the loss of her husband. He fancied that, while she was sorry to say a brief farewell to François, she was, in a way, relieved. The King believed he understood.
THERE WAS a great deal of excitement in the Court because the Queen of England was dead. Her place had been taken—usurped, said the King, the Guises and almost every Frenchman—by the bastard daughter of the concubine Anne Boleyn; and if the throne of England had not been taken by the bastard Elizabeth, it would surely have fallen to Mary, Queen of Scotland, now Dauphine of France.
“Holy Mother of God!” cried the Duke, his eye watering above his scar. “We’ll take men-at-arms across the sea. By God, we’ll turn the redheaded bastard off the throne.”
But the King was against war. The memory of Saint Quentin rankled. It was no easy task to take men and arms across the Channel. He was all for making peace now with his Imperial enemies. He wished to see the return of Anne de Montmorency, the Constable whom he loved and revered. Even now he was seeking peace and would make no fresh wars.