“I am the King, Madame,” persisted Charles.
“You are the King, my son, but you are a child. The ministers about your throne will tell you that. Your mother tells you. Your country expects wisdom of you far beyond your nine years. You must listen to the counsels of those who wish you well for, believe me, my son, there are many in this realm who would be your deadly enemies if they dared.”
A terrible fear showed in the little boy’s face and Mary wondered what stories of the fate which would befall an unwanted king had been poured into his ears.
Charles stammered: “But… but everybody will be glad if Mary stays here. Everybody loves Mary. They were so pleased when she married François.”
“But Mary has her kingdom to govern. They are waiting for her, those countrymen of hers. Do you think they will allow her to stay here forever? I doubt it. Oh, I greatly doubt it. I’ll swear that at this moment they are preparing a great welcome for her. She has her brothers there, remember. James Stuart… Robert and John Stuart and hundreds… nay, thousands of loyal subjects. Her neighbor and sister across the border will rejoice, I am sure, to know that her dear cousin of Scotland is not so far away as hitherto.”
Mary cried out: “I am so recently a widow. I have lost a husband whom I loved dearly. And you come to me—”
“To tell you of my sympathy. You were his wife, my dear, but I was his mother.”
“I loved him. He and I were together always.”
“He and I were together even longer. He was with me before the rest of the world ever saw him. Think of that. And ask yourself whether your grief can be greater than mine.”
“Madame, it would seem so,” said Mary impulsively.
Catherine laid a hand on her shoulder. “My dear Queen of Scotland, I am an old woman; you are a young one. When you have reached my age you will doubtless have learned that grief should be controlled—not only for the good of the sufferer but for those about her.”
“You cannot care as I do.”
“Can grief be weighed?” asked Catherine, turning her eyes to the ceiling. “You are young. There will be suitors and you will find a new husband… one who, I doubt not, will please you better than my dear son did.”
“I beg of you… stop!” implored Mary.
Charles cried: “Mary… Mary… you shall not go. I’ll not allow it. I am the King and I will marry you.”
Catherine laughed yet again. “You see the King of France is but a child. He knows not the meaning of marriage.”
“I do!” declared Charles hotly. “I do.”
“You shall marry at the right time, my darling. And then who knows who your bride will be.”
“Madame, it must be Mary. It must.”
“My son—”
Charles stamped his foot; his twitching fingers began to pull at his doublet and the golden fringe came away in his hand. He flung it from him and turned his blazing eyes on his mother. “It shall be Mary! I want Mary. I love Mary.”
He threw himself at the young widow, flung his arms about her waist and buried his hot quivering face in the white brocade of her gown.
“It is so touching,” said Catherine. “Come, my dear little King. If this is your wish… well then, you are a king and a king’s wishes are not to be ignored. But to speak of this … so soon after your brother has died and is scarce cold in his grave … it frightens me. You want your brother’s wife. I beg of you keep quiet on such a matter for, with your brother so recently dead, it is a sin. Why, you will be afraid tonight when the candles are doused and your apartment is in darkness. You will be afraid of your brother’s accusing ghost.”
Charles had released Mary. He was staring at his mother and biting his lips; his hands began to pull once more at his doublet.
Catherine put her arm about him and held him against her.
“Do not tremble, my son. All will be well. Your mother has that which will protect you from evil spirits. But she needs your collaboration in this. Do not put into words thoughts which could bring disaster to you.”
Mary cried out: “Madame, I am mourning my husband. I would wish to be alone.”
“You poor child. It is true. You are mourning. This is not the time to remind you that, as Dowager Queen of France, you are no longer in a position to order the Queen-Mother of France from your apartment. We understand that it is the extremity of your grief which has made you forget this little detail. We know that when you emerge from your mourning you will fully realize your changed position. There, my child, do not let your grief overwhelm you. You have had many happy years with us here in France. If, by some ill chance, you should have to leave us, remember you will be going to your own country. It is not France, we know, but you will love it the more because it is yours. You will be a neighbor of your cousin of England—”
“Who hates me,” put in Mary.
“Hates you! And you her cousin!”
“She will never forgive me for calling myself Queen of England.”
Catherine looked grave. “Ah! It is a pity that you could not have foreseen this day. I remember well your riding in your litter proudly bearing England’s arms. What pride was yours! Not content with two crowns, you must have a third!”
“I but obeyed the orders of your husband, the King, and of my own husband.”
“And now they are no longer here to share the blame! Have no fear. You are young and many have told you that you are beautiful. It is a fact which you know full well, so I have no need to remind you of it. I am sure the Queen of England will soon have the same affection for you as you have inspired in me. We will leave you now to your mourning.”
Mary knelt and took the cold hand. What were those expressionless eyes telling her? You have stepped down from your pedestal and I am in control now. Do not expect friendship from one whose friendship you never sought. You have learned one lesson in France, Mary Stuart. You have learned what a fool you have been to flout Catherine de Médicis, that daughter of tradesmen.
HER UNCLES came to see her. They had changed since Francois’s death. Their power had been stripped from them. Anne de Montmorency had been recalled; the Queen-Mother was now the Regent of France and it was said that she had complete control over the nine-year-old King. Overnight she had stepped into that position which, during the reign of François and Mary, had been filled by the brothers Guise.
How to recover that position! That was the urgent concern of François de Guise and Charles de Lorraine.
“We have come to discuss the future, Mary,” said the Duke.
“I do not wish to go to Scotland,” said Mary quickly.
“Nor do we wish you to,” the Cardinal assured her. “If all we have in mind shall come to pass, there would be no need of that.”
“Many suitors are presenting themselves,” the Duke told her. “There are Frederick of Denmark and Eric of Sweden—” began the Duke.
“None of whom we feel are worthy of you,” put in the Cardinal.
“There is Arran, whom his father is urging forward,” added the Duke; “although he himself is most eager to come.”
“Poor Arran!” murmured Mary.
“They say his brain is soft,” said the Cardinal, “and has been since he set eyes on you when he was at Court. They say he was first sick with love, and then mad with love for the most beautiful girl in the world. We should not wish you to make so poor a match.”
“Tell her of that other youth,” interrupted the Duke.
The Cardinal’s smile was a sneer. “What impudence! There has arrived at the Court one whose mother has sent him to offer condolences for your loss. Condolences, indeed! The youth is delighted by your loss! That is, if he has the sense to understand what his mother must have been at great pains to hammer into his head. He comes full of hopes… conscious of his royalty … a youth of fifteen, a tall, gangling boy, unsure of anything but that he has royal blood in his veins. He comes to offer condolences from his parents to their kinswoman and to express the hope—oh, most subtly—that if Your Majesty should be looking for another husband, you might be enchanted by a fellow like himself.”