Paris came closer and whispered: “And does your lordship find it hard to stomach the thought for another reason?”
“What reason, fellow?”
“That your lordship would not mind being in the Cardinal’s shoes for a spell?”
The Earl cuffed the man, and Paris retired, holding his ears but still grinning.
“A skittering lass!” Bothwell murmured to himself.
OF WHAT COULD he talk to the Queen? He could tell her of the money he had lost in the defense of Leith; he could ask for the recompense he so sorely needed. He had talked to those men who had been engaged in the defense of Scotland with him and who were now at St. Germain-en-Laye—Seton, Martigues and the Sieur d’Oysel. The Queen, they had told him, had been disinclined to grant their claims—on the advice of the Cardinal, of course. They were disgruntled, all of them.
This was not the occasion, Bothwell realized, to talk of his just deserts. He would try then to warn the Queen and to make sure that, when she formed her new government, he was selected to play a prominent part in it.
At this time the Cardinal decided that he could no longer keep the Queen in ignorance of her mother’s death.
Mary was stunned by the news. Ignorant as she had been of the state of affairs in Scotland, she realized that, now that her mother was unable to guard her throne, it would be in peril.
She shut herself away to grieve alone, and her grief was great. It was nine years since her mother had visited the Court of France and yet they had remained close through their letters. Mary knew that she had lost one of the best friends she could ever have.
What would happen in Scotland now? Her thoughts went to the Borderer who had disturbed her with his bold personality. He would know, and he had been especially recommended to her by her mother.
It was easier for them to talk of Scotland now that she knew of her mother’s death. Bothwell could talk freely of the perilous state of affairs which had sprung up. There was peace with England, it was true; but there were many warring elements within the troubled realm.
She received him in private. She was wan from the past days of mourning.
She said: “My lord, you have come recently from Scotland. You will have knowledge of how matters go there. How fares my brother? I should like to see him again—dear Jamie! We were always so fond of each other.”
A faint smile curved the Earl’s lips. Dear Jamie! The lass was not fit to govern a rough kingdom. Did she not realize that her “dear Jamie” would never forgive her for being born legitimate when he—older, wiser, stronger and a man—might have been King? These French had made her soft. He could see in her eyes the affection she bore her big brother. It did not seem to occur to her that the crown came between her and any love Lord James Stuart might have for her.
But how tell a sentimental and emotional woman to beware of her brother! How speak to her of those hardy men of intrigue—James Douglas, Ruthven, Morton?
All he could do was advise her to form, without delay, a governing party; and because of his knowledge of her Scottish subjects, he could at least give her the names of those whom she could trust—farther than most, he might add.
He himself would take a prominent part in the governing body. He believed Huntley and Atholl too could be trusted.
He did not trust the Bastard of Scotland, but it would be impossible to leave Lord James Stuart out of such a governing body.
The Queen was ready to put her faith in Bothwell.
He looked at her with mild contempt. She was Queen of a troublous realm which she did not even wish to see. He understood perfectly. She liked this soft Court where gallants ducked and bobbed and scented themselves and jangled their jewels in their doublets and even in their ears; she liked pretty verses and music and clever conversation.
It was a sad day, decided the Earl of Bothwell, when Mary of Guise had died and left her frivolous young daughter to fend for herself.
THE COLD WINTER had set in, and the Court was preparing to leave the Balliage where they had been staying in the City of Orléans. The royal baggage, with the magnificent beds and tapestries, had been loaded, and they were ready to travel to Chenonceaux.
Lord Bothwell had left France, and Mary was glad. When he went he seemed to take with him her uneasy thoughts of her kingdom across the seas.
Lately Mary had been conscious of a growing alertness in the face of Queen Catherine. Francois’s mother rarely left his side. She was solicitous of the throbbing pain in his ear for which she was constantly supplying lotions and potions to subdue his suffering. Paré, the great doctor, was in attendance upon the King.
Mary knew from the grave face of the doctor and the closed expression on the face of the Queen-Mother, that François was very ill indeed, far worse than he had ever been before.
She was very anxious on this day of departure, for she knew the keen wind would set Francois’s ear throbbing afresh. The swelling was angrily inflamed and the pain almost unendurable.
She and François were about to mount their horses when François, suddenly putting his hand to his ear, fell fainting to the ground.
There was great consternation, for it was clear that the King was very ill indeed. Mary knelt beside François, and a great fear overcame her for she recognized the signs of approaching death.
Catherine was on the other side of her son. For a moment it was as though a shutter had been drawn aside and Mary glimpsed that in the Italian woman’s face which she would rather not have seen.
Catherine knew her son was dying, but Mary realized she felt no grief; instead she had betrayed her great exultation.
MARY SAT by the bed which had been hastily set up. François was too weak for speech, but he knew she was there and that knowledge comforted him. Occasionally his pain-crazed eyes would be turned to her, and one word formed on his lips, though no sound came: Mary.
Mary knew that her uncles would be hurrying to Orléans, but she felt desperately alone. She wanted to put her arms about her dying husband and protect him from the quiet woman who glided about the apartment, masking her elation, saying soothing words, bringing soothing drinks. Could it be true that a mother could wish her son dead? Could it be true that her personal power meant more to her than the boy who had once been part of her body? Mary could not believe that. But there were such strange stories about this woman.
“Something must be done!” she cried passionately.
She summoned Monsieur Paré to her. She said she wished to be alone with him; but her mother-in-law was in the apartment, calm and determined.
“I am his mother,” she said. “You cannot shut me out.”
“Monsieur Paré,” said Mary, “there must be something which can be done. I beg of you to do it.”
“Your Majesty, I would attempt an operation but it might fail. But if there is no operation the King will certainly die.”
“I will not have my son suffer unnecessarily,” said Catherine. “I must speak with Monsieur Paré. I must know exactly what this attempt will mean. I cannot allow my son to suffer unnecessarily. I am his mother. I would do anything in the world to save him unnecessary pain.”
“We are speaking of his life,” said Mary fiercely.
Catherine turned to the door: “Monsieur Paré, the Queen is a young wife who loves her husband. She is filled with grief and that grief overwhelms her. Monsieur Paré, I am his mother. I must speak with you alone. I must know exactly what this means.”
The surgeon cried out in desperation: “Madame, there is a chance to save the Kings life … a frail one. It is by no means certain. Immediate action would be necessary. There is a slight hope of success, but if nothing is done he cannot last more than a few hours.”