Royal Road to Fotheringhay, стр. 37

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. Francois 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 Orleans, 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 Pare 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 Pare,” 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 Pare. 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 Pare, the Queen is a young wife who loves her husband. She is filled with grief and that grief overwhelms her. Monsieur Pare, 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.”

“It is because of that that I will not have him suffer unnecessarily. My son… my poor little Francois! 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 Pare. Before this operation is performed I must have careful speech with you alone.”

Pare 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 Pare returned to the apartment with Catherine, that it was too late to do anything more to save Francois.

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 Francois.”

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 Francois 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, Francois 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 Francois’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 Francois 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 Francois 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 Francois, Mary would have a new husband, wild Charles.