“It is because of that that I will not have him suffer unnecessarily. My son… my poor little François! He is still that to me, though he may be the King.”
“We waste time,” cried Mary frantically. “Precious time …”
“You are right,” said the Queen. “There is no time to lose.” She took the doctors arm. “I must talk with you first, Monsieur Paré. Before this operation is performed I must have careful speech with you alone.”
Paré looked from the face of the wife to that of the mother. One was a young girl—almost hysterical with grief—the other was a calm woman.
Catherine took him by the arm and led him from the room.
They were a long time gone, and when they returned Mary’s uncles had arrived.
Mary sat by the bed in desolation. There was now a rattle in the King’s throat. Mary knew, when Paré returned to the apartment with Catherine, that it was too late to do anything more to save François.
THE SNOWFLAKES were tapping gently on the window; the wind moaned outside. All those about the bed watched the wan face of the dying King.
The Cardinal had taken the young mans hand; he bent closer over the bed. Even the Cardinal was awed in the presence of death; even to this man came a glimmer of remorse for all he had done to the dying boy.
“Say after me,” he commanded, as all through the boy’s reign he had commanded, “say this: ‘Lord, pardon my sins and impute not to me, thy servant, the sins committed by my ministers under my name and authority’”
The wan lips moved and tried to frame the words.
“Oh, God, listen to him,” prayed Mary. “It was not at his command that the waters of the Loire were stained bloodred. He had no hand in what was done at Amboise. Remember that and do not blame François.”
Catherine came closer to the bed. She said: “It is all over. The King is dead.”
She did not say, but she meant: Long live the King… the new King.
She was determined to govern Charles as the Guises had governed François and Mary.
Mary watched her fearfully as she stood there, her white hands folded on her black gown, forcing sorrow into the face which was beginning to inspire great fear in Mary’s heart.
THEY WALKED solemnly out of the chamber of death—the widowed Queens side by side.
Tears were running slowly down Mary’s face. Her one thought was to make her way with all speed to her own apartments, to lie on her bed, draw the curtains, and demand that she be left alone with her grief.
They were at the door; she would have passed through but there was a light detaining touch on her arm.
Queen Catherine was beside her, pressing her large body gently forward, reminding her that she, Mary, must stand aside now as once Catherine had stood aside for her.
Queen Catherine wished her to know in this moment of bitter grief that Mary was no longer first lady in the land. Catherine was in the ascendant; Mary was in decline.
SIX
IN THE SHROUDED CHAMBER THE YOUNG WIDOW SAT ALONE. Her face was pale beneath the white coif; the flowing robes of her white dress fell to the floor; even her shoes were white. The chamber was lighted only by tapers and it seemed like a tomb to Mary.
She paced the room. She had no tears left. Since her first coming to the Court of France, François had been her friend and her devoted slave. Had she been at times a little too arrogant, a little too certain of his devotion? If she could only have him back now, how she would assure him of this love which she only knew went so deep since she had lost him.
What tragic changes had overtaken her life! She thought of her uncles as they had been on the day of François’s death, standing with her, one on either side of her, while the nobles of the Court, led by Queen Catherine, went to the apartments of the little Charles to do homage to the new King.
They had said nothing to her, those uncles; but she knew they were disappointed in her. There should have been a child, their eyes accused her. A child would have changed everything. Their sinister implication was: If François could not give you a child, there were others who could.
What was honor to those uncles of hers? What was morality? All that mattered was the power of Guise and Lorraine; and, according to them, she had failed in her duty toward her maternal house.
What would become of her?
She smoothed the folds of the deuil blanc, apprehensive of the unknown doom which must soon overtake her.
DURING THOSE first weeks of mourning she must see no one except her attendants and members of the royal family.
They came to visit her—Charles, the nine-year-old King, and Catherine, his mother.
Mary knelt before the boy, who, in his newfound dignity, commanded: “Rise, dear Mary.”
She should have been comforted by the love she saw in his eyes, but she realized that, young as he was, the love he bore her was not that of a brother. The young King’s eyes grew feverish as they studied the white-clad figure. It was as though he were saying: “I am the King of France now that François is dead. There is nothing between us now.”
Could this thing come to pass? Was it possible that she might again be Queen of France? This boy—this unbalanced child who was now the King—wished it; her uncles would do all in their power to bring it about, for if she married Charles the Guises’ power would be unchanged. The only difference would be that in place of gentle François, Mary would have a new husband, wild Charles.
Catherine was closely watching her son’s face. She said: “It is sad for you, my daughter, to be thus alone. Forty days and forty nights … it is a long time to mourn.”
“It seems a short time, Madame,” said Mary. “I shall mourn the late King all my life.”
Catherine puffed her lips. “You are young yet. When you return to your own country you will mayhap have another husband to love.”
Mary could not hide the fear which showed in her face. That was what she dreaded more than anything—to leave the land which she had come to look upon as her own, to sail away to the dismal country of which she had bleak memories and was reminded every now and then when the crude-mannered Scots came to the Court of France. She could not bear to lose her husband, her position and her country at one blow. That would be too much to endure.
“Madame, I should wish to remain here. I have my estates in France. I would retire from the Court if necessary.”
The King said: “It is not our wish that you should do so. We wish you to stay here, dear Mary.”
“Your Majesty is good to me. It is a great comfort to me to know of your kindness.”
“Dearest Mary, I have always loved you,” said the King.
His mother had gripped his shoulder so hard that he winced and, turning angrily, he scowled at her. Mary watched them and she saw the fear which suddenly came into the boy’s face.
Catherine laughed loudly. “The King feels tender toward you,” she said. “He remembers the love his brother bore you. We shall be desolate when you leave us.”
“Mary is not going to leave us,” cried the King wildly. He took Mary’s hand and began to kiss it passionately. “No, Mary, you shall stay. I say so… I say so… and I am the King.”
The red blood suffused the King’s cheeks; his lips began to twitch.
“I cannot have the King agitated,” said Catherine looking coldly at Mary, as though she were the cause of his distress.
“Perhaps if he speaks his mind freely,” said Mary, “he will be less agitated.”
“At such a time! And my little son with such greatness thrust upon him, and he but a child… scarcely out of his nursery! Oh, I thank God that he has a mother to stand beside him at this time, to guide him, to counsel him, to give freely of her love and the wisdom she has gleaned through experience … for he has need of it. He has need of it indeed.”