“An undertaking doomed to failure,” said the King.
He had a better idea. Mary Stuart was rightful Queen of England; therefore on all documents she should be described as such. The armorial bearings of England should be displayed whenever the Dauphin and Dauphine appeared in public. Mary should be known as Dauphine of France, Queen of England, Scotland and the Isles.
The Cardinal and the Duke talked to Mary about her new dignity.
“What will my cousin say when she hears of my claim to her throne?” asked Mary.
“Her throne! Her throne!” cried the Duke testily. “It is your throne. And if I had ten thousand men I’d set you on it without delay.”
But Mary was happy in France. She wished to stay in France. Let her cousin have the throne of England.
The Duke was impatient. Not so the Cardinal. He put his arm about Mary and drew her to him.
“Listen to me, Mary,” he said, “we cannot forsake our duty and your duty is clear. All Christendom is shocked by this usurpation of the English throne. To accept it because it is an easy thing to do is a sin in the eyes of God…. You know full well that Margaret Tudor, daughter of Henry the Seventh of England, married James the Fourth of Scotland and that their son was James the Fifth, your father. Henry the Eighth had one legitimate son and daughter. That son was Edward the Sixth; that daughter was Mary who has now died. Neither left issue. Your grandmother, Margaret Tudor, therefore provides the next line of succession and consequently the Queen of Scotland is the true Queen of England.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“So now, dearest, I know you will not shirk your duty. You will not be guilty of foolish weakness. How do you think God and the saints regard this usurpation of the throne by one who is known to be as immoral as her mother was?”
“Yet… she is my cousin.”
“The daughter of a concubine!”
“But the daughter of the King as well.”
The Cardinal laughed. “My dear Mary, her mother lost her head because she was found guilty of adultery. Now, my darling, purge your mind of foolish thoughts which would be displeasing to God. Your uncle commands you. Nay, how could he command the Queen of Scotland who is also the Queen of England! He begs you instead, my dearest. Will you disappoint him? Will you have him feel that he has wasted all these years when he has tried to show you the path of righteousness?”
“Oh, no, Uncle.”
“Then, my Queen, all is well. Proudly bear your titles, and one day we will drive the redheaded bastard out of England.”
Mary said obediently: “Yes, Uncle. Of course you are right.” But she was thinking of the gown she would wear at the coming pageant, and the last thing she wanted was to be Queen of England, for it might mean leaving the land she loved and of whose Court she was the petted darling.
SINCE HIS MARRIAGE the Dauphin had grown much taller, but although he himself was delighted with this, it was clear that the sudden shooting up had done little to improve his health. He now became possessed with a mad desire to shine in all sports and pastimes. He would ride for long hours and return exhausted. Mary remonstrated but he replied: “Others do it. Why should not I?”
Mary had ceased to be a child when she had married. She had discovered that there was more to life than wearing fine clothes, dancing, riding, writing verses and listening to compliments, and that masques and pageants were often cover for plots and murderous intentions. Life was only pleasant on the surface, and the surface was as thin as the sheets of ice which had been declared dangerous to skaters last winter at Rambouillet.
She was sixteen. It was not very old but she had to learn quickly. She had to be able to see behind the masks on peoples faces; she had to understand what was behind their words.
It was terrifying when François returned from the forest with his brother Charles. François was white and exhausted. She saw them ride into the courtyard; François slipped from his horse; she ran to him and said: “You’re tired, dearest.”
He had smiled wanly. “No,” he said, “I am not tired. It was a good days sport.” His voice was hoarse. The doctors said there was some affliction of the throat.
“Come and rest now,” said Mary.
“Rest!” cried François, aware of Charles’s complacent smile. “I have no need of rest.”
Charles who had leaped from his horse, threw the reins to a groom and cried out: “Come, François, let us go and shoot at the butts. Mary, come and watch.”
Mary, impulsive as she was, hot-tempered and quick to anger, was even quicker to feel sympathy, particularly where those she loved were concerned. She had the endearing gift: of putting herself in the place of anyone who was uncomfortable or who suffered in any way, and she had seen the look of sheer exhaustion on her husband’s face as he said: “Come on then. I’m ready.”
She would not let him tire himself out. She took his arm and said pleadingly: “Oh, François, I did want to read my verses to you. I have scarcely seen you all day.”
With what tenderness he smiled into her eyes! Perhaps he knew that her desire was not to read her verses aloud but to see those tired limbs of his enjoy the rest they needed, and that his young brother should not have the pleasure of beating him at the butts.
Charles scowled. Mary saw that familiar clenching and unclenching of the hands.
She slipped her arm through that of Francois’s. “Come along. I insist. You must hear my verses.”
They left Charles to scowl after them as he shouted to his attendants: “Come … to the butts. I am not in the least tired. I can spend ten hours in the saddle and feel as fresh as when I started.”
Mary led François into the palace and made him lie down while she read to him. He was happy to be with her; he had ridden with Charles and shown that he could do these things; now he was free to do as he wished, to rest his exhausted body while Mary sat beside him, her hand in his, his subtle protectress who never showed the rest of the world how she stood between him and everything that hurt him.
After a while he slept and Mary drew the coverlet over him and left him.
She met Charles coming from the butts. He was with several of his attendants, but when he saw Mary he signed to them to go on. His eyes were wild as he looked at Mary; his lips curled unpleasantly. “Poor old François,” he said. “He was worn out.”
“You rode too far.”
“Not for me. I have something to say to you, Mary. It is very secret. Come to the window seat here. Then we shall not be overheard. Speak low, Mary. I have heard that François is very sick.”
“François is well,” said Mary quickly. “He has grown too fast in the last months and that tires him.”
“They are saying that he will never live to reach the throne.”
“They talk too much.”
“Mary… Mary… if he does not… when my father dies, I shall be King of France.”
“Your father will not die, and François will live.”
“If my father dies and François dies, you can still be Queen of France. I will marry you.”
He had taken her hands and was covering them with quick kisses.
Mary drew back in alarm. Here was another of those shocks which were coming to her too frequently. Charles had been a young boy not quite nine years old a few moments ago; now he was behaving like a man … a lover.
“I will love you as François never can,” said Charles. “He is too sick. Mary, when he dies, I will marry you … and he will die soon. I know he will.”
Mary snatched her hands away.
“You do not know what you are saying,” she cried, rising. Then, seeing the red blood tinge his face and begin to show in the whites of his eyes, she said soothingly: “I am glad you love me, Charles. But I am Francois’s wife and I hope I shall always be. Stay as you are… my little brother. That contents me.”