Royal Road to Fotheringhay

ONE

THROUGH THE GREAT ROOMS OF THE CASTLE OF STIRLING five little girls were playing hide-and-seek. They were all in their fifth year and all named Mary.

She, whose turn it was to seek, stood against the tapestry, her eyes tightly shut, listening to the echo of running feet, counting softly under her breath: “Ten… eleven… twelve …”

It was fair now to open her eyes, for they would all be out of sight. She would count up to twenty and then begin to search. Livy would give herself away by her giggling laughter. She always did. Flem would betray herself because she wished to please and thought it wrong that her beloved Mary should not succeed immediately in everything she undertook. Beaton, the practical one, and Seton, the quiet one, would not be so easy.

“Fifteen… sixteen …”

She looked up at the silken hangings. They were soft and beautiful because they came from France. Her mother spoke often of France—that fairest of lands. Whenever her mother spoke of France a tenderness came into her voice. In France there was no mist, it seemed, and no rain; French flowers were more beautiful than Scottish flowers; and all the men were handsome.

In France Mary had a grandfather, a grandmother and six uncles. There were some aunts too but they were not so important. The uncles were all handsome giants who could do anything they wished. “One day,” her mother often said, “you may see them. I want them not to be ashamed of you.”

“Eighteen… nineteen… twenty …” She was forgetting the game.

She gave a whoop of warning and began the search.

How silent the rooms were! They had chosen this part of the castle for hide-and-seek because no one came here at this hour of the day.

“I am coming!” she called. “I am coming!”

She stood still, listening to the sound of her voice. Which way had they turned—to the left or to the right?

She wandered through the rooms, her eyes alert. Was that a shadow behind the stool? Was that a bulge behind the hangings?

She had now come into one of the bedrooms and stood still, looking about her. She was sure she had heard a movement. Someone was in this room. Yes, there was no doubt.

“Who are you?” she called. “Where are you? Come out. You are found.”

There was no answer. She ran about the room, lifting the curtains, looking behind the furniture. Someone was somewhere in this room, she felt sure.

She lifted the curtains about the bed and there was little Mary Beaton.

“Come out, Beaton,” commanded the little Queen.

But Beaton did not move. She just lay stretched out on her stomach, resting on her elbows, propped up on her hands.

Mary cried impatiently: “Come out, I said.”

Still Beaton did not move.

The color flamed into Mary’s face. She remembered that she was Queen of Scotland and the Isles. Great men knelt before her and kissed her hand. Her guardians, those great Earls—Moray, Huntley and Argyle—never spoke to her without first kneeling and kissing her hand. And now fat little Beaton refused to do as she was bid.

“Beaton, you heard me! You’re found. Come out at once. The Queen commands you.”

Then Mary understood, for Beaton could no longer contain her emotions; she stretched full out on the floor and began to sob heartbrokenly.

All Mary’s anger disappeared. She immediately got onto her knees and crawled under the bed.

“Beaton… dear Beaton… why are you crying?”

Beaton shook her head and turned away; but Mary had her arms about her little friend.

“Dear Mary,” said the Queen.

“Dear Mary,” sobbed Beaton.

Rarely did the Queen call one of her four friends by their Christian names. It only happened in particularly tender moments and when they were alone with her, for Mary the Queen had said: “How shall we know which one we mean, since we are all Marys?”

They did not speak for some time; they just lay under the bed, their arms about each other. The little Queen could be haughty; she could be proud; she could be very hot-tempered; but as soon as those she loved were in trouble she wished to share that trouble and she would do all in her power to comfort them. They loved her, not because she was their Queen whom their parents and guardians had commanded them to love and serve, but because she made their troubles her own. It was not long before she was sobbing as brokenheartedly as Beaton, although she had no idea what Beaton’s trouble was.

At last Mary Beaton whispered: “It is… my dear uncle. I shall never see him again.”

“Why not?” asked Mary.

“Because men came and thrust knives into him … so he died.”

“How do you know? Who told you this?”

“No one told me. I listened.”

“They say it is wicked to listen.”

Beaton nodded sadly. But the Queen did not blame her for listening. How could she? She herself often listened.

“So he is gone,” said Mary Beaton, “and I shall never see him again.”

She began to cry again and they clung to one another.

It was hot under the bed, but they did not think of coming out. Here they were close, shut in with their grief. Mary wept for Beaton, not for Beaton’s uncle, the Cardinal—a stern man, who had often told the Queen how good she ought to be, how much depended on her, and what an important thing it was to be Queen of Scotland. Mary grew tired of such talk.

Now she had another picture of the Cardinal to set beside those she knew—a picture of a man lying on the floor with knives sticking into him. But she could not think of him thus for long. She could only remember the stern Cardinal who wished her to think continually of her duty to the Church.

They were still under the bed when the others found them. They crawled out then, their faces stained with tears. Mary Fleming began to cry at once in sympathy.

“Men have stuck knives in Beaton’s uncle,” announced Mary.

All the little girls looked solemn.

“I knew it,” said Flem.

“Then why didn’t you tell?” asked the Queen.

“Your Majesty did not ask,” answered Flem.

Seton said quietly: “Everyone won’t cry. The King of England will be pleased. I heard my father say so.”

“I hate the King of England,” said Mary.

Seton took the Queen’s hand and gave her one of her solemn, frightened looks. “You must not hate him,” she said.

“Mary can hate anyone!” said Flem.

“You should not hate your own father,” said Seton.

“He is not my father. My father is dead; he died while I was in my cradle and that is why I am the Queen.”

“If you have a husband,” persisted Seton, “his father is yours. My nurse told me so. She told me that you are to marry the English Prince Edward, and then the King of England will be your father.”

The Queen’s eyes flashed. “I will not!” she cried. “The English killed my father. I’ll not marry the English Prince.” But she knew that it was easy to be bold and say before her Marys what she would and would not do; she was a queen and had already been forced to do so many things against her will. She changed an unpleasant subject, for she hated to dwell on the unpleasant. “Come,” she said, “we will read and tell stories to make poor Beaton forget.”

They went to a window seat. Mary sat down and the others ranged themselves about her.

But the vast room seemed full of frightening shadows. It was not easy to chase away unpleasant thoughts. They could read and tell stories but they could not entirely forget that Mary Beaton’s uncle had been stabbed to death and that one day the Queen would have to leave her childhood behind her and become the wife of some great prince who would be chosen for her.

THE QUEEN-MOTHER noticed at once the traces of tears on her daughter’s face. She frowned. Mary was too emotional. The fault must be corrected.

The little Queen’s stern guardians would have noticed the marks of tears.

Since the Cardinal had been murdered there were only three guardians—Moray, Huntley and Argyle.

The Queen-Mother herself could have shed tears if she had been the woman to give way to them. The Cardinal was the one man in this turbulent land whom she had felt she could trust.

She looked about the assembly. There was the Regent, Arran, the head of the house of Hamilton, and of royal blood, longing to wear the crown of Scotland; Arran, who could not be trusted, whom she suspected of being the secret friend of the English, who had hoped to marry his son to the English King’s daughter Elizabeth, and who doubtless had hopes of his son’s wearing not only the crown of Scotland but that of England. There was false Douglas, so long exiled in England and only daring to return to Scotland after the death of James; Douglas, who had schemed with the King of England. He it was who had agreed, when in the hands of the English, to the marriage between the little Queen and Prince Edward. It was he who had come with soft words to the Queen-Mother, setting forth the advantages of the match.

There was the giant Earl of Bothwell who had hopes of marrying the Queen-Mother. Was he loyal? How could she know who in this assembly of men was her friend? Scotland was a divided country, a wild country of clans. There was not in Scotland that loyalty to the crown which the English and French Kings commanded.

And I, she thought, am a woman—a Frenchwoman—and my child, not yet five, is the Queen of this alien land.

All eyes were on the little girl. What grace! What beauty! It was apparent even at so young an age. Even those hoary old chieftains were moved by the sight of her. How gracefully she stood! How nobly she held her head! She had all the Stuart beauty and that slight touch of something foreign which came from her French ancestors and which could enhance even the Stuart charm.

“God protect her in all she does,” prayed her mother.

She raised her eyes and caught the flashing ones of Lord James Stuart—Stuart eyes, heavy lidded, not unlike Mary’s, beautiful eyes; and the proud tilt of the head denoted ambition. He was a boy yet in his early teens. But ambition smoldered there. Was he thinking even now: Had my father married my mother, I should be sitting in the chair of state and it would be my hand those men would kiss?

“God preserve my daughter from these Scots!” prayed the Queen-Mother.

Now the little Queen stood while the great chieftains came forward to kiss her hand. She smiled at them—at Arran, at Douglas. They looked so kind. Now came Jamie—dear Jamie. Jamie knelt before her but when he lifted his eyes to her face he gave her a secret wink, and she felt the laughter bubble up within her. It was rather funny that tall, handsome Jamie should kneel before his little sister. She knew why of course, for she had demanded to know. It was because although his mother was not the Queen, the King, her father, had also been Jamie’s father. Mary had other brothers and sisters. It was a pity, she had said to her Marys, that their mothers had not been queens, for it would have been fun to have a large family living about her—even though she was so much younger.

Now her mother would not allow her to stay.

“The Queen is very tired,” she said, “and it is time she was abed.”

Mary wanted to stay. She wanted to talk to Jamie, to ask questions about the dead Cardinal.

But although they all kissed her hand and swore to serve her with their lives, they would not let her stay up when she wanted to. She knew she must show no annoyance. A queen did not show her feelings. Her mother had impressed that upon her.

They all stood at attention while she walked out of the apartment to where her governess, Lady Fleming, was waiting for her.

“Our little Queen does not look very pleased with her courtiers,” said Janet Fleming with one of her gay bursts of laughter.

“No, she is not,” retorted Mary. “I wanted to stay and talk to Jamie. He winked when he kissed my hand.”

“Gentlemen winking at you already—and you the Queen!” cried Janet. Mary laughed. She was very fond of her governess who was also her aunt. For one thing red-haired Janet was very beautiful, and, although no longer in her first youth, was as full of fun as her young charge. She was a Stuart, being the natural daughter of Mary’s grandfather; and little Mary Fleming was her daughter. She could be wheedled into letting the Queen have much of her own way, and Mary loved her dearly.

“He is only my brother,” she said.

“And should be thankful for that,” said Janet. “Were he not, it would be an insult to the crown.”

She went on chattering while Mary was prepared for bed; it was all about dancing, clothes, sport and games, and when her mother came to the apartment Mary had temporarily forgotten the grief which Beaton had aroused in her.

The Queen-Mother dismissed all those who were in attendance on the Queen, so Mary knew that she was going to be reprimanded. It was a strange thing to be a queen. In public no one must scold; but it happened often enough in private.

“You have been crying,” accused Marie of Lorraine. “The traces of tears were on your face when you received the lords.”

Fresh tears welled up in Mary’s eyes at the memory. Poor Beaton! She remembered those desperate choking sobs.

“Did your women not wash your face before you came to the audience?”

“Yes, Maman, but it was such a big grief that it would not come off.”

The Queen-Mother softened suddenly and bent to kiss the little face. Mary laughed and her arms went up immediately about her mother’s neck.

The Queen-Mother was somewhat disturbed. Mary was too demonstrative, always too ready to show her feelings. It was a charming trait, but not right, she feared, in a girl of such an exalted position.

“Now,” admonished Marie, “that is enough. Tell me the reason for these tears.”

“Men have stuck knives into Beaton’s uncle.”

So she knew! thought her mother. How could you keep terrible news from children? Mary had good reason to shed tears. Cardinal Beaton, upholder of the Church of Rome in a land full of heretics, had indeed been her friend. Who would protect her now from those ambitious men?

“You loved the Cardinal then, my daughter?”

“No.” Mary was truthful and spoke without thinking of the effect of her words. “I did not much like him. I cried for poor Beaton.”

Her mother smoothed the chestnut hair, so soft yet so thick, which rippled back from the white forehead. Mary would always weep for the wrong reasons.

“I share little Beaton’s grief,” said the Queen-Mother, “for the Cardinal was not only a good man, he was a good friend.”

“Why did they kill him, Maman?”

“Because of Wishart’s death … so they say.”

“Wishart, Maman? Who is he?”

What am I saying? the Queen-Mother asked herself. I forget she is only a baby. I must keep her from these tales of bloodshed and murder as long as I can.

But Mary was all eager curiosity now. She would find out in some way. Behind those deeply set, beautiful eyes there was an alert mind, thirsting for knowledge.

“Wishart was a heretic, my child, and he paid the penalty of heretics.”

“What penalty was that, Maman?”

“The death which is accorded heretics fell to him.”

”Maman… the flames!”

“How do you know these things?”

How did she know? She was not sure. Had one of her Marys whispered it? Had she seen pictures in the religious books? She covered her face with her hands and the tears began to flow from her eyes.

“Mary! Mary, what has come over you? This is no way to behave.”

“I cannot bear it. He was a Scotsman, and they have burned him… they have burned him right up.”

Marie de Guise was alarmed. A little knowledge was so dangerous, and her daughter was so impulsive. What would she say next? She was precocious. How soon before some of these men began to corrupt her faith? They would do everything in their power to turn her into a heretic. It must not be. For the honor of the Guises, for the glory of the Faith itself, it must not be.

“Listen to me, child. This man Wishart met his just reward, but because the Cardinal was a man of the true faith, Wishart’s friends murdered him.”

“Then they did right! I would murder those who burned my friends.”

“A little while ago you were crying for the Cardinal.”

“No, no,” she interrupted. “For dear Beaton.”

The Queen-Mother hesitated by the bedside. How could she explain all that was in her mind to a child of this one’s age? How could she expect this baby mind to understand? Yet she must protect her from the influence of heretics. How did she know what James Stuart whispered to the child when he pretended to frolic with her? How did she know what Arran and Douglas plotted?

“Listen to me, Mary,” she said. “There is one true Church in this world. It is the Church of Rome. At its head is the Pope, and it is the duty of all monarchs to serve the true religion.”

“And do they?”

“No, they do not. You must be careful what you say. If you do not understand, you must come to me. You must talk to no one about Wishart and the Cardinal… to no one… not even your Marys. You must remember that you are the Queen. You are but little yet, but to be a queen is not to be an ordinary little girl who thinks of nothing but playing. We do not know who are our friends. The King of England wants you in England.”

“Oh, Maman, should I take my Marys with me?”

“Hush! You are not going to England.” The mother took her child in her arms and held her tightly. “We do not want you to go to England. We want to keep you here with us.”

Mary’s eyes were wide. “Could they make me go?”

“Not unless …”

“Unless?”

“It were by force.”

Mary clasped her hands together. “Oh, Maman, could they do that?”

“They could if they were stronger than we were.”

Mary’s eyes shone. She could not help it. She loved excitement and, to tell the truth, she was a little tired of the castle where all the rooms were so familiar to her. She was never allowed to go beyond the castle grounds; and when she played, there were always men-at-arms watching.

Her mother came to a sudden decision. The child must be made to understand. She must be shocked, if need be, into understanding.

“You are being foolish, child,” she said. “Try to understand this. The worst thing that could happen to you would be for you to be taken to England.”

“Why?”

“Because if you went your life would be in danger.”

Mary caught her breath. She drew back in amazement.

It was the only way, thought the Queen-Mother. There was too much danger and the child must be made aware of it.

“The King of England has said that he wishes you to go to England to be brought up with his son.”

“You do not wish me to marry Edward?”

“I do not know … as yet.”

The Queen-Mother stood up and walked to the window. She looked across the country toward the south and thought of the aging monarch of England. He had demanded the marriage for his son, and that Mary be brought up in the Court of England as a future Queen of England. A good enough prospect… if one were dealing with any but the King of England. But there was a sinister clause in the agreement. If the little Queen of Scots died before reaching an age of maturity, the crown of Scotland was to pass to England. The royal murderer should never have a chance of disposing of Mary Stuart. How easy it would be! The little girl could fall victim to some pox… some wasting disease. No! He had murdered his second and fifth wives and, some said, was preparing to murder his sixth. He should not add the little Queen of Scots to his list of victims.

But how tell such things to a child of five years!

Marie de Guise turned back to the bed. “Suffice it that I shall not allow you to go to England. Now … to sleep.”

But Mary did not sleep. She lay sleepless in the elaborate bed—the bed with the beautiful hangings sent to her by her glorious uncles—and thought of that ogre, the King of England, who might come at any moment to carry her off by force.

NOW THE LITTLE QUEEN was aware of tension. She knew that the reason why she must never go beyond the castle walls without a strong guard was because it was feared she would be abducted.

She called the Marys together. Life was exciting. They must learn about it. Here they were shut up in Stirling Castle playing hide-and-seek, battledore and shuttlecock, reading, miming, playing games; while beyond the castle walls grown-up people played other games which were far more exciting.

One day when they were all at play, Flem, who happened to be near the window, called to them all. A messenger was riding into the courtyard, muddy and stained with the marks of a long ride, his jaded horse distressed and flecked with foam.

The children watched—five little faces pressed against the window. But the messenger stayed within the castle and they grew tired of waiting for him to come out, so they devised a new game of messengers. They took it in turn to be the messenger riding on a hobby horse, come from afar with exciting news concerning the King of England.

Later they were aware of glum faces about them; some of the serving men and women were in tears and the words Pinkie Cleugh were whispered throughout the castle.

Lady Fleming shut herself in her apartment and the five Marys heard her sobbing bitterly. Little Flem beat on the door in panic and called shrilly to be allowed to come in. Then Janet Fleming came out and looked blankly at the five little girls. Her own Mary ran to her, and Janet embraced her crying over and over again: “My child… my little Mary… I still have you.” Then she went back into her room and shut the door, taking Flem with her.

Mary, left alone with her three companions, felt the tears splashing on to her velvet gown. She did not understand what had happened. She was wretched because her dear Aunt Janet and little Flem were in some trouble.

“What is Pinkie?” she demanded; but even Beaton did not know.

It was impossible to play after that. They sat in the window seat huddled together, waiting for they knew not what.

They heard a voice below the window, which said: “They say Hertford’s men are not more than six miles from the castle.”

Mary knew then that danger was close. Hertford, her tutors had told her, was the Lord Protector of England who ruled until Edward—that boy who might very well be her husband one day—was old enough to do so himself, for King Henry had died that very year. To Mary, Hertford was the monster now; he was the dragon breathing fire who would descend on the castle like the raiders on the Border and carry the Queen of Scotland off to England as his prize.

That was a strange day—a queer, brooding tension filled the castle. Everyone was waiting for something to happen. She did not see her mother that evening and her governess was not present when she went to her apartment for the night.

At last she slept and was awakened suddenly by dark figures about her bed. She started up, thinking: He has come. Hertford has come to take me to England.

But it was not Hertford. It was her mother, and with her were the Earl of Arran, Lord Erskine and Livy’s father, Lord Livingstone, so that she knew this was a very important occasion.

“Wake up,” said her mother.

“Is it time to get up?”

“It is an hour past midnight, but you are to get up. You are going away on a journey.”

“What! At night!”

“Do not talk so much. Do as you are told.”

This must be very important, for otherwise even her mother would not have talked to her thus in the presence of these noble lords. She had to be a little girl now; she had to obey without question. This was no time for ceremony.

Lady Fleming—her eyes still red with weeping—came forward with her fur-trimmed cloak.

“Quickly,” said Lady Fleming. “There is no time to be lost. If your lordships will retire I will get my lady dressed.”

While Mary was hustled into her clothes she asked questions. “Where are we going? Why are we going now? It’s the night… the dead of night…”

“There is no time for questions.”

It should have been an exciting adventure, but she was too tired to be conscious of most of that journey. She was vaguely aware of the smells of the night—a mingling of damp earth and misty air. Through the haze of sleep she heard the continued thudding of horses’ hoofs. Voices penetrated her dreams. “Pinkie… Pinkie…. Hertford close on our heels. Cattle driven over the Border. Rape… murder… fire… blood.”

Words to make a grown-up person shudder, but to a child of five they were little more than words.

Now she was in a boat and she heard the sound of oars dipping into water. It became suddenly calm and peaceful as though there was no longer the desperate need for haste.

The violent bump of the boat as it touched land awakened her thoroughly. “Where are we?” she cried.

“Hush… hush!” she was told. “Maman is here.” That was her mother talking to her as though she were indeed a baby.

She was taken up and placed in the arms of someone clothed in black. Over his head was a cowl. He might have frightened her had his eyes not been gentle and his voice kind.

“Sleep, little one,” he said. “Sleep on, little Queen. You have come safely to Inchmahome.”

Inchmahome! The melodious word took the place in her dreams of Pinkie Cleugh and blood… murder… rape. Inchmahome… and peace.

IT SEEMED TO MARY that she lived for a long time in the island monastery. At first there was much she missed, but it was not long before her four Marys arrived on the island to bear her company. Lady Fleming stayed with her, and because there was need to comfort her aunt, Mary herself was comforted. Lord Fleming had been killed at the terrible battle of Pinkie Cleugh. He was one of fourteen thousand Scots who had died that day.

Mary wept bitterly. First Beaton’s uncle and now Flem’s father. And both had been killed. There had been no need for either of them to die. “Why,” she demanded angrily of Lady Fleming, “could they not all love each other and be friends?”

“It is the accursed English!” cried Lady Fleming. “They want Scotland for their own. They have killed my Malcolm. I hate the English.”

“But it was not the English who killed Cardinal Beaton,” said Mary.

“They were behind that murder too. They are a heretic people.”

Mary put her arms round her governess and reminded her that she had five sons and there was big James to be Lord Fleming now.

Janet Fleming took the lovely face in her hands and kissed it. “When you grow up,” she said, “many will love you. You have that in you which attracts love. There will be men to love you …”

Janet’s eyes brightened and her sorrow lifted a little, for she could not help knowing that there would still be men to love Janet Fleming too. It was true that she was no longer young but her appeal seemed ageless. She had been born with it and it did not diminish at all. Here in the monastery she would let her grief subside; her wounds would heal and when she again went into the world she would be her jaunty pleasure-loving self, attracting men perhaps because she herself was so easily attracted by them.

So they were able to comfort each other, and the brief rest on the peaceful island was something they were both to remember in the years to come and look back upon with a certain longing.

Mary grew accustomed to the life of the island. She had soon, with her little friends about her, made a miniature court for herself. She was watched with delight—even by the monks—for in her black silk gown, ornamented by the brilliant tartan scarf, held together by the gold agraffe which was engraved with the arms of Scotland and Lorraine, her lovely hair loose about her shoulders, she was a charming sight.

At first the monks in their musty black had not attracted her; she had been startled to come upon them gliding through the cold bare rooms. But when she grew to know them she found a gentleness in them which appealed to her. They answered her only when she spoke to them, but they did not speak even to each other unless it was absolutely necessary.

It was like a world of which she had dreamed—a strange world shut in by granite walls. The bells rang continually, for life on the island in the lake of Menteith was divided into periods, by the bells. Mary went daily with her four friends to the great room with the stained-glass windows; there she prayed to the saints and confessed her sins.

Her curiosity had to be satisfied, and she and the four Marys could not be content until they had wheedled the secret from Lady Fleming.

“Why are we here, Aunt Janet?” asked Mary.

“It is a rest for me… after what I suffered.”

“Did they take me out of bed at midnight for that?” asked Mary scornfully.

“It is because of the English,” said Beaton.

“Hertford’s men came close to the castle,” added Mary. “We heard of that.”

Poor Janet! She could never be discreet. “Well, I do know,” she admitted, “but nothing would prise it from me.” But the five Marys could, and in a short time Janet was saying: “If I tell you, you must never mention it to anyone… anyone at all.”

She admitted that they had been sent to Inchmahome to escape the English. “Your mother has plans for you,” she added.

“What plans?” demanded Mary.

“Plans made with the French, so they say.”

“With my uncles?”

“They send messengers to her continually. There are some, my little Queen, who would like to see you sent to England, but your mother has other plans.”

Lady Fleming could not be induced to say what these plans were, so the five little girls, who knew her well, decided that she did not know and that it was no use pestering her further.

When Mary was in her room, which was as bare as a cell, she knelt before the little altar there, but instead of praying she was thinking about plans with the French.

She rose from her knees and studied the ornament her mother had given her and which she always wore to fasten her scarf. Her mother had explained the significance of the emblems on the ornament. The silver eagles were of Lorraine, the double cross was of Jerusalem; and the lilies were of Anjou and Sicily. This was the emblem of Guise and Lorraine. Her mother had said: “Always remember the emblem when you are afraid or when you are about to do something shameful. It is the emblem of Guise and Lorraine.”

And Guise and Lorraine was France! What had Lady Fleming meant by plans made with the French?

Wherever I go, said Mary to herself, I shall take my four Marys with me. I shall never, never be parted from them.

AFTER A WHILE she grew to love the life of the monastery. There was so much to discover and those black-clad men were so ready to teach. Here she learned to speak and read in French, Spanish and Italian as well as Latin. She could play as she wished on the grounds about the monastery and there was no one to guard her and her little friends. They could go wherever they wished as long as they remained on the island.

Slowly the days passed and it seemed to all the little girls that they lived for a very long time on the island of Inchmahome.

THEN ONE DAY when they were wandering close to the lakes edge they saw men rowing to the island. They ran back to tell Lady Fleming what they had seen. Mary was in a flutter of excitement because she believed that the English had come to take her away.

The Abbot himself came running in consternation to the water’s edge. Mary Fleming had taken the girls into the monastery, but they could not resist watching from a window.

They saw the Abbot was smiling and bowing to the men.

“English!” cried Lady Fleming excitedly. “They are not English. They are Scottish noblemen. Depend upon it they have come to take us home.”

She was right.

Lady Fleming put the cloak about the dainty little figure and called to Flem to bring the brooch which was emblazoned with the arms of Guise and Lorraine.

“Back to something a little more gay, the saints be praised!” said Lady Fleming.

But oddly enough Mary was not sure whether she really wanted to go. She had now so many friends in this quiet retreat. She thought of the quiet common room in which she and the four Marys had so often sat together taking lessons from the brothers; she thought of the freedom of wandering on the island, of the peace and silence which had frightened them at first but which they had grown to love.

She wept when she said good-bye to some of the brothers who had become her favorites; she threw her arms about them in a most unqueenly fashion and buried her face in the musty robes which had formerly repelled her.

“Farewell to you all,” she cried. “Farewell, dear brothers. Farewell, dear Abbot. Farewell, dear Inchmahome.”

She stood waving to them as the boat carried her party across the lake.

Her mother was waiting for her at Stirling Castle. With her were the Lords Lindsay, Livingstone, Montrose and Erskine. And there was another—a stranger.

He was tall and his beard was curled as she had never seen a beard curled before; his hands moved expressively; his eyes flashed and sparkled as they rested on the little Queen.

“This is an emissary from the King of France,” said the Queen-Mother, and as she spoke those words she seemed taller and prouder than ever before. “He comes with greetings from the King and my brothers.”

Mary was enchanted with the newcomer. She decided he was very pretty and unlike any man she had seen before.

He sank to his knees very gracefully, not as the Scottish nobles knelt; he took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Your Majesty’s most humble servant,” he said. He continued to hold her hand.

Then he rose and turned to the Queen-Mother. “Forgive me, Madame,” he said in French, but Mary’s French was good enough to understand him, “I am struck dumb by such enchanting beauty.”

The Queen-Mother was smiling. She called him Monsieur l’Amiral. There was much talk and laughter and the little Queen saw that other strangers had come into the chamber, and they too had curled beards and gay tongues and spoke quickly—far too quickly—in the French tongue.

She retired to her apartment after a while, but no sooner was she there than her mother entered. Mary had never seen her look so excited.

She too talked French, and so rapidly that Mary had to beg her to speak more slowly.

“This will not do,” cried Marie de Guise. “What will your uncles say if you cannot speak French fluently? You must do so before you step for the first time on the soil of France.”

Marie de Guise’s eyes had filled with tears and, in spite of the fact that there were others present, she abandoned ceremony and taking her daughter in her arms she held her tightly.

Then Mary knew that she was to leave for France—not in the distant future—and that these strange men had come to escort her there.

THERE WAS a bustle of preparation; there was a packing of baggage; and all this was done at the utmost speed.

Now and then the Queen-Mother found time to talk to her daughter, to tell her of the wonderful future which was being planned for her. “You are going to my people. The Most Christian King himself will be your father. The Queen of France will be as your mother; and your grandfather, the great Duke of Guise, and your grandmother, who was Antoinette de Bourbon before she became Madame de Guise, will be there, with your uncles, to greet you.”

She had to make this child understand the importance of what was about to happen to her. She was the Queen of Scotland, but a greater throne was coming her way. His Most Christian Majesty was offering her the crown of France through marriage with his son. A great and glorious future was to be hers, and the child would be worthy of it. Surely her beauty must startle even the French.

“Listen to me carefully. The English are close at hand; they have captured some of our towns. They know that our kind friend, the King of France, offers you marriage with his son—and that is the very thing they are anxious shall not take place because they want you for their King Edward. Henri Deux, the King of France has sent ships to Scotland. When we go to Dumbarton you will see those mighty ships, and they have braved the storms and the English fleet to come to us. King Henri is our friend. He is anxious that there shall be great friendship between his country and ours. He has sent these ships to take you back to France.”

“And shall you come with me?”

“I cannot come, my darling. I must stay here. But you will have many of your friends with you. All your little Marys shall go. I shall come to visit you. The King—your new father—will not wish you to be lonely. He wants you to be very happy.”

Mary was too excited to be afraid. She was going to the most beautiful country in the world. But when she looked into her mother’s face she was immediately sad. Poor Maman, she would stay behind. Poor Maman, who must also lose her daughter.

Mary threw her arms about her mother’s neck.

“I will not go, dearest Maman. I will stay with you.”

“That is nonsense, my child.”

“But you will be unhappy if I go. I would rather never see France than make you unhappy.”

“Why, you foolish child, it makes me the happiest Queen in the world to know you go to France. It is what I wish for you. I shall come to see you soon. The King says I must. He is very kind.”

“I wonder what the Dauphin is like.”

“François? He is the same age as yourself… or almost. Your birthday is in December and his in January. Some queens have to marry men old enough to be their grandfathers and others have to marry those young enough to be their children.”

Mary began to laugh. “That must be very funny.”

“Royal marriages are never funny.”

“No, Maman” said Mary seriously.

“The Dauphin is not very strong. You will have to be careful not to tire him in your play.”

“Yes, Maman?

Already Mary had decided that she would make the care of the Dauphin her special task.

HER MOTHER took her on board the ship. With them were the four Marys—now very solemn and demure in their heavy capes. Lady Fleming bustled about them, her lovely face flushed with excitement, forgetful of her widowhood, keenly aware of the admiration directed toward herself even when it came from the humblest sailors.

The Queen-Mother made her daughter walk before her onto the King’s galley. Behind them came all those who were to form part of the little Queen’s entourage in her new country. There would be so many of them, Mary thought, that it would be almost like being at home.

As they stepped aboard, accompanied by Admiral Villegaignon, a tall man came toward them and knelt before the Queen so that his eyes were on a level with hers. Mary knew him, for he was the Sieur de Brézé, the French King’s ambassador at the Scottish Court.

“Your Majesty’s servant,” he said. “My master has commanded me to act as your French governor until I have conducted you safely to his presence.”

She answered in her high piping French which, with its faint Scottish accent, delighted all these Frenchmen: “Rise, Monsieur de Brézé. It gives me great pleasure to greet you.”

She held out her hand, from the wrist of which the circles of infant fat had now almost, but not quite, disappeared. He kissed it, and again she was aware of that admiration which all the French seemed to show when they looked her way.

He stood up and she said: “What does this mean? What will you do as my French governor? Will you teach me?”

“There is only one thing I wish to teach Your Majesty, and that is that all France will take one look at you and fall in love with you.”

It was extravagant talk such as she was unaccustomed to hear, and she was a little bewildered, but delighted all the same. It was true, she was sure, that the French were all that she had been led to believe.

Her mother was smiling, so her French must have passed the test.

Now the Queen-Mother spoke. “Monsieur de Brézé, I shall wish to know all that happens during the journey. I shall wish to know as soon as possible that my daughter has arrived safely in France.”

He bowed gracefully. “Madame, I will protect your daughter with my life. Messengers shall be dispatched to you; they shall reach you if they have to sink every English ship to do so.”

How vehemently they spoke, thought Mary. How they smiled! How their eyes flashed and how their hands moved with their voices! Strange men! Monsieur de Brézé smelled of violets, or was it roses? His golden beard curled enchantingly. She admired him every bit as much as he admired her.

How happy she could have been if she had not had to part from her mother! But Queen Marie was smiling bravely, although at the last she let affection triumph over ceremony. She held her daughter tightly in her arms, and Mary saw the tears glistening in her eyes.

“The saints preserve you,” were her last words. “Remember all I have taught you. Never forget that you are a queen, my dearest, and all will be well.”

“Good-bye, dearest Maman.”

“I shall see you soon, I feel sure. And now… good-bye.”

The Queen-Mother was escorted off the ship. She stood on the shore gazing after the French fleet, at the fluttering standard bearing the arms of Valois. How small the child looked, wrapped in her heavy cloak, her eyes fixed on the mother she was leaving behind her.

Am I right in letting her go? anxiously wondered Marie de Guise in those moments. What will become of my little one? The King has promised that she shall be as his daughter, but how much can Kings be trusted? What of the Court of France? Is it the right place in which to bring up a child? It was scarcely the most virtuous of courts, but she had heard from her relations that there had been a tightening of morals since the death of François. Was there still that perpetual lovemaking, seeming so decorous and charming—scented notes bearing verses of poetic merit, delicate compliments overlaying orgies and promiscuity like a gossamer veil? Henri was more sérieux than his father had been, and Diane de Poitiers was his faithful mistress, but was Henri’s Court so very different from that of his father?

And Mary—so warm-hearted, so eager to love all, so French in many ways—how would she fare in such a Court? Was it right to pass her over to voluptuous Paris? Was that better than sending her to murderous London? But of course it was! In France were her own family, and they were close to the throne. The house of Guise and Lorraine would look after its own.

Marie de Guise stood erect, fighting back tears while the ships set sail; she watched them until she could see them no more. Then she returned to her apartments in Dumbarton and spent long hours on her knees praying that the royal ship and its escort might escape both perilous storms and the English.

IT WAS a wonderful journey. The wind rose and buffeted the ship, but the five Marys, finding themselves free from restraint, first walked sedately about the deck, then ran, calling to each other, taking off their satin snoods and laughing as the wind caught their hair and flung it back across their faces.

Mary’s half brothers—Lord James who was Prior of St. Andrews, Lord John who was Prior of Coldingham, and Lord Robert who was Prior of Holyrood—stood together watching the children.

“Jamie! Jamie!” called Mary. “Is it not wonderful to be at sea, eh, Robert, eh John?”

The brothers smiled at their little sister, but there was a brooding look in the eyes of Lord James. He could not forget that he, a young man who was strong and healthy, was set aside because he was a bastard. He was merely a rich beneficiary of the Church instead of a king.

The Lords Livingstone and Erskine paced the deck in quiet conversation.

“It will not do to trust them too far,” Livingstone was saying.

“Indeed not,” agreed Erskine.

“Artus de Brézé—ambassador and now the Queen’s governor—what manner of man is he? A jewelled perfumed dummy!”

“The Fleming woman seems to be taken with him and cannot hide it even under the eyes of her son—and she but recently a widow.”

Artus de Brézé was in his turn laughing at the Scotsmen. Such gaunt features, such ruddy skins. Paris would be amused with them. Nor were the women too handsome. The little girls were charming, especially the Reinette. She was someone whom the French would appreciate—a beauty and aware of it already. But the women—with the exception of Lady Fleming—were of small interest. There would be little trouble on their account.

He wondered whether he could seduce the red-haired lady during the voyage. It would be rather piquant. At night with the darkness all about them, on the high seas, in danger of an English enemy sighting them at any moment. A Scot and a king’s daughter at that! Very amusing! thought the Sieur de Brézé.

Now the little one was standing beside him.

“Monsieur!”

It was a pleasure to hear her speak; it was a delight to look into the upturned face at those long eyes thickly lashed, that soft mouth which was meant for tenderness. He could not help but picture her, say, in ten years’ time.

“I am at Your Majesty’s service. You must not cease to call on me at any hour of the day and night. It will be my pleasure to see that your smallest wish is granted.”

She laughed, showing her pretty teeth. “Ah, Monsieur de Brézé, you say such nice things.”

“I say only that which the beauty of Your Majesty impels and inspires me to say.”

“Monsieur de Brézé, if you would lift me up I could sit on the rail, and that is what I wish to do.”

She was light, and she laughed as he lifted her.

“Why do you regard me in that way, Monsieur?”

“Your Majesty is an enchantress. I see it already.”

“What is an enchantress?”

“It is what you are and what you will increasingly become.”

“Is it a good thing for a queen to be?”

“It is a good thing for anyone to be—man or woman, queen or commoner. Tell me, what do you think of us Frenchmen?”

“I love you all. And do you think the King of France will love me?”

“He could not fail to do so.”

“And the Queen?”

“The Queen also. The King has said: ‘The little Queen shall be as my daughter.’ He says that before he has seen you; but when his eyes fall on you, my little Queen, he will say much more. Where is your governess?”

“The sea has made her ill and she will not show herself.”

“You must tell her that I am desolate.”

“Desolate, Monsieur? But you look so happy.”

“I am desolate to know that she suffers. Will you tell her that?”

“Yes. Put me down and I will tell her at once.”

When she was on her feet she retreated a pace or two. She said with a smile: “I shall tell her that you say you are desolate, and look so happy when you say it.”

She started to walk away.

“Your Majesty,” he called. “I will explain.”

She stopped, turned and regarded him gravely. Then she said demurely: “My mother and my guardians have told me that we must quickly learn the ways of the French … all of us.”

He watched her skipping away. So beautiful! So young! And already with some knowledge of the ways of the world.

THE FRENCH GALLEYS were in sight of land, and the dangerous journey was nearly over. Mary stood with Lady Fleming, her three brothers and the four Marys, watching the land as they approached it. None of them was more relieved than Lady Fleming that the journey was over. She declared she had come near to dying. So ill had she been that she had implored Monsieur de Villegaignon to let her go ashore when they were within a few miles of the coast of England; she had felt then that she would rather die at the hands of the English than become a victim of the sea. Monsieur de Villegaignon had forgotten his French manners and peremptorily told her that she should not land; she should go to France or drown by the way. What a mercy it had been that they had brought Scottish navigators with them. These men, accustomed to stormy weather and rocky coasts, had been invaluable during the voyage.

And now, praise the saints, thought Lady Fleming, the peril was well-nigh over.

Mary was unable to feel anything but excitement. She had almost forgotten the terror of seeing English ships on the horizon. It seemed a long time ago when her brothers had stood about her with Lords Erskine and Livingstone, determined to defend her should the need arise. The saints had answered their prayers, and the wind had turned in their favor, so that they were able to speed across the rough waters until the English dropped below the horizon. Now here they were in sight of France, and their galley was drawing in to the little Brittany port of Roscoff.

As soon as she stepped ashore Mary was made aware of the magnitude of the welcome which was to be given to her.

The little port was festooned with gay banners, and the people had come for miles round to line the shore and shout a welcome to la Reinette. In this they were obeying the orders of the King, who had said: “Welcome the little Queen of Scots as though she were already my daughter.”

And when these people saw the little girl—so small and dainty—with her four attendants the same age as herself, in their fur-lined capes, they were enchanted.

“Vive la petite Reine!” they cried; and Mary, sensing their admiration, smiled and bowed so prettily that they cried out that she was delightful, this little girl who had come to them from the savages.

The progress across France began. From Roscoff the procession made its way to Nantes, Mary sometimes riding on a small horse, sometimes carried in a litter; and each town through which they passed had its welcome for her. Accustomed to the more restrained greetings of her own countrymen and-women, Mary was enchanted by the gaiety of these French who were so ready to drink to her health and make a fête day of her short stay in their towns or villages.

At Nantes a gaily decorated barge was awaiting her and she, in what proved to be a glorious river pageant, sailed with her entourage up the river Loire through the villages and vineyards of Anjou and Touraine, where the people lined the riverbank to call a welcome to her. When she left the barge and went ashore in her litter, the people crowded around her, their eyes flashing, laughter bubbling from their lips, and she thought them the merriest people she had ever seen. How could she be homesick for those castles which had been nothing more than prisons! Here the people were not only gay but friendly. It was an informal pageant in which the laborers from the vineyard, the tillers of the soil, and plump peasant women, joined merrily.

She had never witnessed anything like it and she was as delighted with the French as the French were with her.

But when they left the barge at Tours, the journey became more of a royal progress, for waiting to greet her was her grandfather Claude Duc de Guise, and her grandmother, the Duchesse, was with him—she who before her marriage had been Antoinette de Bourbon.

These great personages received her with much ceremony, but when they were alone her grandmother took the child on her knee and embraced her. “You are indeed a pretty child,” she said; and her eyes gleamed, as did those of the Duke her husband, for the fortunes of the mighty house of Guise and Lorraine rested on this dainty child’s shoulders.

“I shall write and tell your uncle François that he will love you,” went on her grandmother.

“Is my uncle François not here then, Grandmother?”

“No, my child, he is much occupied with the affairs of the country. So are his brothers. But they will be delighted, all of them, to hear what a dear little girl you are.”

Her grandfather talked to her too. He reminded her that while she was Queen of Scotland she was also a member of the noble house of Guise and Lorraine.

“We stand together, my little one. One for all and all for each. That is the rule of our family. Soon you will be meeting your uncles. Your uncle Charles will keep you under his wing.”

Mary listened gravely. She had heard most of it already from her mother.

The Duchesse traveled with the party by river to Orléans where they disembarked and continued by road through Chartres.

“You will be housed,” the Duchesse told Mary, “with the royal children—the Dauphin and his little sister Elizabeth. The little Princess Claude and Prince Louis are babies still. The King has decided that you shall live at the palace of Saint-Germain as soon as it is sweetened. Meanwhile you will stay nearby at Carrières.”

“When shall I see the King and Queen?” asked Mary.

“Ah, you go too fast. The Court is at Moulins, so to begin with you will make the acquaintance of the royal children. The King wishes the meeting to be informal. You understand, my child? The King loves children and thinks tenderly of them—not only his own but others also. He has decided that you shall come to know the children with a complete absence of ceremony. He is anxious that you should love each other. You are to share a room with Madame Elisabeth. She is only three and a half. He hopes that you will be particularly fond of the Dauphin.”

“I shall, I know I shall. I am going to take great care of him.”

The Duchesse laughed. “Ah, my little one, you have the proud spirit of a Guise. So the Queen of a savage land will take great care of the heir of France, eh?”

“But he is younger than I,” protested Mary. “And I hear that he is not strong.”

Madame de Guise patted her shoulder. “You are right, my child. You must take every care of him, for on him will depend your future… and that of others. Let it not be too obvious care. Let it be loving tenderness. I know you will be a credit to us. There is another matter. The King is pleased to allow your four little friends to be with you, but he wants them to go away after the first few days at Carrières. No! Do not be afraid. The King has heard of your love for them and he would not for the world part you from them. But for a little while he wishes you to be alone in the royal nursery with François and Elisabeth. He wants no other children to come between you for a little while.”

“It will only be for a little while?”

“For a very little while. You need have no fear, dear child. You will be happy in our royal nurseries.”

“The King is a very good king,” said Mary. “The Queen … is she beautiful?”

“All queens are beautiful,” said the Duchesse lightly.

“Does she too say that she wants me to love François and Elisabeth?”

“The Queen agrees with the King in all things.”

Mary was intelligent. She noticed that the manner of her grandmother changed when she mentioned the Queen of France. Why? wondered Mary.

She was longing to see the Dauphin and his little sister; she was longing to see the King; but oddly enough, as she explained to her Marys, she felt more curious about the Queen.

THE MEETING between the children was unceremonious as it had been intended it should be. In the big room at Carrières Mary went forward to greet them. With them were their Governor and Governess, the Maréchal d’Humières and Madame d’Humières. With Mary were her grandmother and the members of her suite.

The Dauphin stared at Mary. She was taller than he was. His legs were thin and spindly and it seemed as though the weight of his body would break them. His head seemed too large for the rest of him and he was very pale.

Mary’s tenderness—always ready to be aroused—overwhelmed her. She knelt and kissed his hand. He stared at her wonderingly; and rising she put her arms about him and kissed him. “I have come to love you and be your playmate,” she said.

The little boy immediately responded to her embrace.

Mary broke away and glanced with some apprehension at her grandmother. They had said no ceremony, but had she been too impulsive in embracing the Dauphin?

The Duchesse was far from displeased. She had noticed the little boys response. She glanced at Madame d’Humières. What a pity that the King is not here to see this! that glance implied. He would be quite enchanted.

Madame d’Humières nodded in agreement. It was always wise to agree with the Guises, providing such agreement would not be frowned on by the King’s mistress.

Mary had turned to the three-and-a-half-year-old Elisabeth, a frail and pretty little girl; and what a pleasure it was for the Duchesse to see a princess of France kneel to her granddaughter! Madame Elisabeth knew what was expected of her. Had not the King said: “Mary Stuart shall be as one of my own children, but because she is a queen she shall take precedence over my daughter”?

Mary looked into the face of the little girl and, because the child was so small and because she had embraced her brother, the little Queen could not resist embracing the Princess also.

Her grandmother advanced toward the group, at which the two royal children seemed to move closer to Mary as though expecting she would protect them from her important relative.

But the Duchesse merely smiled at them and turned to the Maréchal and Madame d’Humières.

“So charming, is it not?” she said. “The King will be delighted. They love each other on sight. Let us leave them together. Then they will be more natural, and when the King slips in unceremoniously he will be delighted with our way of bringing them together.”

When Mary was alone with the two children, she took a hand of each and led them to the window seat.

“I have just come here,” she said. “First I came on a big ship. Then I rode in a litter. Then I came on another ship. I have come from far… far away.”

The Dauphin held her hand in his and clung to it when she would have released it. Elisabeth regarded her gravely. Neither of the French children had ever seen anyone quite like her. Her flashing eyes, her vivacious manners, her strange dress and her queer way of talking overwhelmed and fascinated them. Elisabeth’s gravity broke into a quiet smile and the Dauphin lifted his shoulders until they almost touched his big head; and all the time he insisted that his hand should remain in that of the newcomer.

He was already telling himself that he was never going to let her go. He was going to keep her with him forever.

MARY HAD LIVED at Carrières for two weeks. She was the Queen of the nurseries. Elisabeth accepted her leadership in everything they did; François asked nothing but to be her devoted slave.

She was a little imperious at times, for after all she was older than they were; she was so much cleverer. She read to them; she would sit on the window seat, her arm about François while Elisabeth tried to follow the words in the book. She told them stories and of games she had played with her four Marys with whom she hoped soon to be reunited; she told of the island of Inchmahome in the lake of Menteith whither she had gone one dark night, wrapped in a cloak, fleeing from the wicked English. She told of the long journey across the seas, of the high waters and the roaring winds and of how the English ships had sighted hers on the horizon, for of course they were on the prowl looking for her.

These adventures made her an exciting person; her age made her such a wise one; and her vitality, so sadly lacking in the French children, made her an entertaining companion; but perhaps it was her beauty which strengthened her power.

Thus it was when one day there came into the nurseries unannounced a tall man with a beard which was turning to silver; he was dressed in black velvet and there were jewels on his clothes. With him came a lady—the loveliest Mary had ever seen.

The children immediately ran forward and threw themselves at the man. This was one of the occasions to which they looked forward. If there had been others present it would have been necessary to bow and kiss hands, but this was one of those pleasurably anticipated occasions when the two came alone.

“Papa! Papa!” cried François.

The big man picked him up and the lady kissed Francois’s cheek.

Elisabeth was holding fast to his doublet and there was love and confidence in the way her little fingers curled about the black velvet.

“This will not do! This will not do!” cried the man. “My children, what of our guest?”

Then he lowered François to the floor. François immediately caught the lady’s hand and they all advanced to the Queen of Scots who had fallen to her knees, for she knew that the big man with the silvering beard was Henri, King of France.

“Come,” he said in a deep rumbling voice which Mary thought was the kindest she had ever heard, “let us look at you. So you are Mary Stuart from across the seas?”

“At Your Majesty’s service,” said Mary.

He laid his hand on her head and turned to the lady beside him. “I think we shall be pleased with our new daughter,” he said.

Mary flushed charmingly and turned to kneel to the lady. She took the slim white hand and kissed the great diamond on her finger.

“Yes, indeed,” said the lady, “our new daughter enchants me.”

“I am happy,” said Mary, in her charming French, “to know that I have not displeased Your Majesties.”

They laughed and the Dauphin said: “Mary has come across the sea. She came on a boat and then on another boat and she reads to us.”

The King stooped then and picked up the boy, swinging him above his head. “You must borrow Marys rosy looks, my son,” he said.

Elisabeth was quietly waiting to be picked up and kissed, and when it was her turn she put her arms about her fathers neck and kissed him; then she buried her face in his beard.

The beautiful lady, whom Mary assumed to be the Queen, said: “Come and kiss me, Mary.”

Mary did so.

“Why, what a fine girl you are!” The soft white fingers patted Mary’s cheeks. “The King and I are glad you have come to join our children.” She smiled fondly at the King who returned the smile with equal fondness over the smooth head of Elisabeth. In a sudden rush of affection for them both, Mary kissed their hands afresh.

“I am so happy,” she said, “to be your new daughter.”

The King sat in the big state chair which was kept in the apartment for those occasions when he visited his children. He took Mary and the Dauphin on his knees. The lady sat on a stool, holding Elisabeth.

The King told them that there was to be a grand wedding at the Court. It was Mary’s uncle who was to be married.

“Now, my children, Mary’s uncle, the Due d’Aumale, must have a grand wedding, must he not? He would be displeased if the Dauphin did not honor him by dancing at his wedding.”

The Dauphin’s eyes opened wide with horror. “Papa… no!” he cried. “I do not want to dance at the wedding.”

“You do not want to dance at a fine wedding! You do, Mary, do you not?”

“Yes, I do,” said Mary. “I love to dance.” She put out her hand and took that of the Dauphin. “I will teach you to dance with me, François. Shall I?”

The grown-ups exchanged glances and the King said in rapid French which Mary could not entirely understand: “This is the most beautiful, the most charming child I ever saw.”

THE CHILDREN were alone. Mary was explaining to the Dauphin that there was nothing to be frightened of in the dance. It was easy to dance. It was delightful to dance.

“And the King wishes it,” said Mary. “And as he is the best king in the world, you must please him.”

The Dauphin agreed that this was so.

While they practiced the dance, Elisabeth sat on a cushion watching them. The door silently opened, but Mary did not hear it, so intent was she on the dance. She noticed first the change in Elisabeth who had risen to her feet. The smile had left Elisabeth’s face. She seemed suddenly to have become afraid. Now the Dauphin had seen what Elisabeth saw. He too stood very still, like a top-heavy statue.

There was a woman standing in the doorway, a woman with a pale flat face and expressionless eyes. Mary took an immediate dislike to her, for she had brought something into the room which Mary did not understand and which was repellent to her. The woman was dressed without magnificence and Mary assumed that she was a noblewoman of minor rank. Hot-tempered as she was, she let her anger rise against the intruder.

As Queen of the nursery, the spoiled charge of easy-going Lady Fleming, the petted darling of almost everyone with whom she had come into contact since her arrival in this country, fresh from her triumph with the King, she said quickly: “Pray do not interrupt us while we practice.”

The woman did not move. She laughed suddenly and unpleasantly. The little French children had stepped forward and knelt before her. Over their heads she regarded the Queen of Scots.

“What will you do, Mademoiselle?” asked the woman. “Are you going to turn me out of my nurseries?”

“Madame,” said Mary, drawing herself to her full height, “it is the Queen of Scotland to whom you speak.”

“Mademoiselle,” was the reply, “it is the Queen of France to whom you speak.”

“N-No!” protested Mary. But the kneeling children had made her aware of the unforgivable mistake she had made. She was terrified. She would be sent back to Scotland for such behavior. She had been guilty not only of a great breach of good manners; she had insulted the Queen of France.

“Madame,” she began, “I humbly beg …”

Again the harsh laugh rang out; but Mary scarcely heard it as she knelt before the Queen, first pale with horror, then red with shame.

“We all make mistakes,” said Catherine de Médicis, “even Queens of such great countries as Scotland. You may rise. Let me look at you.”

As Mary obeyed she realized that there were two queens: one lovely and loving who came with the King, who kissed the children and called them hers and behaved in every way as though she were their mother, and another who came alone, who frightened them and yet, it seemed, was after all their mother and the true Queen of France.

TWO

TO MARY, LIFE IN THOSE FIRST MONTHS WAS FULL OF PLEASURE. It was true there were times when the Queen of France would come silently into the nursery, laugh her sudden loud laughter, make her disconcerting remarks, and when little François and Elisabeth would, while displaying great decorum, shrink closer to Mary as though asking her to protect them. But Mary was gay by nature and wished to ignore that which was unpleasant.

Often King Henri and Madame Diane came to the nursery to play with them, to caress them and make them feel secure and contented. It had not taken Mary long to discover that if Queen Catherine were Queen in name, Diane was Queen in all else.

Mary noticed that, when Catherine and Diane were together in the nursery, Catherine seemed to agree with all Diane’s suggestions. Being young, being fierce in love and hate, young Mary could not resist flashing a look of triumph at the Queen’s flat, placid features at such times.

She is a coward! thought Mary. She is not fit to be a queen.

The four Marys were now added to the little Queens adoring circle, but the Dauphin had become her first care. All those who saw Mary and the Dauphin together—except Queen Catherine—declared they had never seen such a charming love affair as that between the Dauphin and his bride-to-be. As for little Madame Elisabeth, she became one of Mary’s dearest friends, sharing her bedchamber and following her lead in all things.

It was at the wedding of her uncle François Duc d’Aumale that she met this important man for the first time. He looked very like the knight she had pictured during her childhood in Scotland and she was not disappointed in the eldest of her uncles. François de Guise, Duc d’Aumale, was tall and handsome; his beard was curled; his eyes were flashing; and he was gorgeously appareled. He was ready to become—as he soon was to be—the head of the illustrious family of Guise. He filled the role of bridegroom well, as he did that of greatest soldier in the land. His bride was a fitting one for such a man. She was Anne d’Esté, the daughter of Hercule, Duke of Ferrara, and was herself royal, for her mother was King Henri’s aunt.

There was a good deal of whispering in the Court concerning the marriage. “Watch these Guises,” said suspicious noblemen. “They look to rule France one way or another. Old Duke Claude had not the ambition of his sons; that doubtless came from their Bourbon mother. But Duke Claude, who was content with the hunt, his table and his women, is not long for this world and then this Due d’Aumale will become the Duc de Guise, and he looks higher than his father ever did.

Mary heard nothing of these whisperings. To her the marriage was just another reason for merriment, for wearing fine clothes, for showing off her graces, for being petted and admired for her beauty and charm.

So there she was in the salle de bau stepping out to dance with the Dauphin, enchanting all with her grace and her beauty and her tender devotion to the heir of France.

“Holy Mother of God!” swore the Due d’Aumale. “There goes the greatest asset of the House of Guise. One day we shall rule France through that lovely girl.”

LATER HE TALKED with his brother Charles. Charles, five years younger than his brother François, was equally handsome though in a different way. François was flamboyantly attractive but Charles had the features of a Greek god. Charles’s long eyes were alert and cynical. François would win his way through boldness, Charles by cunning. Charles was the cleverer of the two, and knowing himself to lack that bravery on which the family prided itself, he had to develop other qualities to make up for the lack.

So Charles, the exquisite Cardinal, with his scented linen and his sensuality, was an excellent foil to his dashing brother; they were both aware of this, and they believed that between them they could rule France through their niece who in her turn would rule the Dauphin.

They had brought rich presents for Mary; they were determined to win her affection and to increase that respect which their sister, the Queen-Mother of Scotland, had so rightly planted in her daughter’s mind.

The Cardinal, whose tastes were erotic and who, although he was quite a young man, was hard pressed to think of new sensations which could delight him, was quite enchanted with his niece.

“For, brother,” he said, “she has more than beauty. There is in her… shall we call it promise? What could be more charming than promise? She is like a houri from a Mohammedan paradise, beckoning the newcomer to undreamed of delight, inviting him to explore with her that which she herself has not yet discovered.”

François looked at his brother uneasily. “Charles, for God’s sake, do not forget that she is your niece.”

Charles smiled. Blood relationships were of no account in his world of licentiousness. His long slim fingers a-glitter with jewels which put those adorning his brother’s person in the shade, stroked his cardinal’s robes. Did he enjoy being a man of the church so much because, in his relationships with charming people, that fact added an extra relish? François was a blunt soldier for all that he was a Guise and destined, Charles was sure, to be one of the great men of his day. Rough soldier—he took the satisfaction of his carnal appetites as a soldier takes them. Charles was selective, continually striving for the new sensation.

“My dear brother,” he said, “do you take me for a fool? I shall know how to deal with our niece. She is a little barbarian at the moment, from a land of barbarians. We shall teach her until she is cultured and even more charming than she already is. But the material is excellent, François, excellent.” The Cardinal waved his beautiful hands describing the shape of a woman. “Beautiful… malleable material, dear François.”

“There must be no scandal touching her, Charles. I beg of you to remember that.”

“François! My dear soldier brother! You are a great man. You are the greatest man in France. Yes, I will say that, for there is none here to repeat my words to his boorish Majesty. But you have lived the life of a soldier, and the life of the soldier, you will admit, is one that lacks refinement. I am in love with Mary Stuart. She is an enchanting creature. Dear brother, do not think that I mean to seduce her. A little girl of six? Piquant… yes. But if I want little girls of six, they are mine. It is her mind that I shall possess. We shall possess it between us. We shall caress it… we shall impregnate it with our ideas. What pleasure! I have long since known that the pleasure of the body—after the first rough experimenting—cannot be fully enjoyed without the cooperation of the mind.”

Francois’s brow cleared. Charles was no fool. No fool indeed! If he himself was Frances greatest soldier, Charles would be the country’s cleverest diplomat.

“I feel,” said François, “that you should watch over her education carefully, and that the Maréchal and Madame d’Humières should not be given too free a hand. The governess, Fleming, is no danger, I suppose?”

“The governess Fleming is just a woman.”

“If you wish to seduce a royal lady of Scotland, why not…,” began François.

The cynical mouth turned up at the corners. “Ten years ago your suggestion would have interested me. The Fleming will be a worthy lover. Very eager she will be. She is made for pleasure. Plump and pretty, ripe, but of an age, I fear, for folly, and the folly of the middle-aged is so much more distressing and disconcerting than that of youth. But there are hundreds such as the Fleming. They are to be found in every village in France. Nay, I’ll leave the Fleming for some callow boy. She’ll bring him much delight.”

“You could, through the woman, keep a firm hand on Mary Stuart.”

“The time is not yet come. Mary, at the moment, is the playmate of the Dauphin, and as such shares the governor and governess of young François. That is enough for the moment. Let her strengthen that attachment. That is the most important thing. The Dauphin must be completely enslaved; he must follow her in all things. He is willing to do so now, but she must forge those chains strongly so that they can never be broken. He is his father all over again. Would Diane have caught our Henri so slavishly if she had not caught him young? ‘How charming!’ they say. Madame Diane says it. His Majesty says it. ‘Was there ever anything more delightful than for two children who are destined for marriage to be already such tender playmates?’ These Parisians! They are not like us of Lorraine. They talk love and think love. It is their whole existence; it is an excuse for everything. It is typically Valois. But we must be more clever; we must see farther. We know that this love between our niece and the King’s son is more than charming; it is very good for the House of Guise. Let us therefore help to forge those chains, chains so strong that they cannot be broken, for depend upon it, sooner or later the Montmorencys—or mayhap our somnolent Bourbons—will awake from their slumbers. They will see that it is not a pretty little girl who has made the King-to-be her slave; it is the noble House of Guise.”

“You are right, Charles. What do you suggest?”

“That she remains at present as she is. The chattering Fleming will be useful. She—herself the slave of love—will be delighted to see her mistress installed in the heart of our Prince. She will chatter romance; she will foster romance; and she will do no harm. Leave things as they are, and in a few years’ time I shall take over Mary’s education. I shall teach her to be the most charming, the most accomplished lady in France. None shall be as beautiful as she, none shall excel her at the dance, at the lute; she will write exquisite verses, and all France—but most of all the Dauphin—will be in love with her. Her mind shall be given to the art of pleasing others; and it shall be as wax in the hands of the uncles who will love and cherish her, for their one desire will be to keep her on the throne.”

François smiled at his elegant brother.

“By God!” he cried suddenly. “You and I will conquer France and share the crown.”

“In the most decorous manner,” murmured Charles. “Through our little charmer from the land of savages.”

THE DAYS flew past for Mary. At lessons she excelled; she played the lute with a skill rare in one so young; she was a good horsewoman. In the royal processions she was always picked out for her charm and beauty. The King often talked to her. Diane was delighted with her. When she rode out with the Dauphin she would watch over him and seize his bridle if he was in any difficulty. He would be uneasy if she was not always at his side.

All the great châteaux which had been but names to her she now saw in reality. She thought less and less of her native land. Her mother wrote frequently and was clearly delighted with her daughters success. She had had letters from the King, she said, which had made her very happy indeed.

Mary’s four namesakes were now with her, but they had to take second place. The Dauphin demanded so much of her time. She explained this carefully to them for she was anxious that they should know that she loved them as dearly as ever.

They listened to gossip, and there was plenty of that at the French Court. Now the talk was all about the Queens coronation which was about to take place. The King had already celebrated his coronation shortly after the death of his father, and now it was Catherine’s turn.

The celebrations were lavish. Mary had never seen anything quite so wonderful. Even the dreamlike pageants which had accompanied her uncle’s wedding seemed commonplace when compared with those of the Queen’s coronation. Even the Queen looked magnificent on that day. As for the King he was a dazzling sight, resplendent in cloth of silver; his scabbard flashed with enormous jewels, and his silver lace and white satin hat were decorated with pearls. The sheriffs of Paris held over him a blue velvet canopy embroidered with the golden lilies of France as he rode his beautiful white horse.

Mary would never forget the display of so much beauty. She was, she told Janet Fleming, only sorry that it was not her beloved Diane, instead of Queen Catherine, who was being crowned.

“Well, let her enjoy her coronation,” said Lady Fleming. “That’s all she’ll get.”

“All! A coronation all! Dear old Fleming, what more could she want?”

“She wants much more,” said Lady Fleming. “Whom do you think the King has presented with the crown jewels?”

“Diane, of course.”

Lady Fleming nodded and began to laugh. “And she wears them too. She insists. The King is pleased that she should. What a country! The old Maréchal Tavannes complains that at the Court of France more honor is done to the King’s mistress than to his generals. Who is the real Queen of this country, tell me that!”

“Diane, of course. And I am glad that it should be so, for I hate Queen Catherine.”

“She is not worth the hating. She is as meek as a sheep. Look at this. It is one of the new coins struck at the coronation and should bear the heads of the King and Queen. But see! It is Diane riding on the crupper of the Kings horse. It means that although he has been forced to marry Queen Catherine and make her the mother of his children, there is only one Queen for him—Diane.”

“And more worthy to be!” cried Mary. “Queen Catherine is not royal. She has no breeding. She is vulgar. I wish she would go back to her Italian merchants so that the King could marry Diane.”

They looked up sharply. The door had opened so quietly that no one had heard a sound. They were relieved to see that it was not Catherine who stood there; it was Madame de Paroy.

“Yes, Madame de Paroy?” said Mary, immediately assuming the dignity of her rank. “What is it you want?”

“To ask your Majesty if you would wait on Queen Catherine.”

“I will do so,” said Mary. “And, Madame de Paroy, when you come to my apartments will you be so good as to be announced?”

“I could find none of your pages or women, Your Majesty. I am sorry that, as you and Lady Fleming were enjoying such mirth, you did not hear me.”

Madame de Paroy curtsied and retired. Mary looked at Lady Fleming who was trembling.

“Why are you afraid, and of what?” demanded Mary.

“I am afraid that she will tell Queen Catherine what she heard you say.”

Mary tossed her head. “Who cares for that! If Queen Catherine were unpleasant to me I should ask Diane to protect me.”

“There is something about her that frightens me,” said Janet.

“You are too easily frightened, Fleming dear.”

“Do not keep her waiting. Go to her now… at once. I shall not rest until I know what she has to say to you.”

Mary obeyed. She returned very shortly.

“You see, you silly old Fleming, it was nothing. She just wished to speak to me about our lessons.”

DIANE HAD fallen ill and had retired to her beautiful château of Anet which enhanced the beauty of the valley of the Eure and which Philibert Delorme had helped her to make one of the most magnificent examples of architecture in the country. The King, filled with anxiety, would have dropped all state obligations to be with her, but Diane would not hear of it. She insisted on his leaving her in her château with her faithful servants, and continuing with his Court duties.

Everyone in the Court was clearly delighted or anxious—except, of course, the Queen. She, who would surely be most affected, remained as expressionless as ever; and whenever Diane’s name was mentioned spoke of her concern for her health.

A melancholy settled over Saint-Germain, and Mary hated melancholy. When the King visited his children he was absentminded. Nothing was as pleasant as it had been when Diane was there.

Then an alarming incident occurred. Mary would not have heard of this but for the cleverness of Beaton who had quickly improved her French and was now a match for anyone.

Beaton took Mary into a corner to whisper to her: “Someone tried to poison you.”

Mary was aghast. “Who?” she demanded; and her thoughts immediately flew to the Queen.

“No one is sure. It was the poisoner’s intention to put an Italian posset into a pie for you. But it’s all right. They have a man whom they have caught, and I expect they’ll tie him to four wild horses and let them gallop in different directions.”

For once Mary was too horrified by what might be happening to herself to feel sorry for the victim of such a horrible punishment.

Mary Beaton had gleaned no further information, so Mary tackled Janet Fleming. Janet had heard the story, although, she said, the King wished it not to be bruited abroad, for he was much distressed that danger should have come so near Mary when she was at his Court.

“He says that the vigilance about you must be intensified. You must not let anyone know you have heard of this.”

“Tell me who did this thing.”

“A man is accused who is named Robert Stuart. Oh, do not look shocked. It is not your brother but a poor archer of the guard who happens to bear his name. He was clearly working for someone else. Some say it was the English. Others that he worked for your kinsman the Earl of Lennox… a Protestant. And this would seem most likely, as Robert Stuart is clearly a fanatic. He has confessed that he did this thing, and will suffer accordingly. Matthew Lennox declares his innocence, but who shall know?”

“So it was not the Queen,” said Mary.

“The Queen! What do you mean?”

“She hates me. Sometimes I am afraid of her.”

“Nonsense! The Queen is but a name.”

THE KING came into the nurseries to see the children, and with him was the Queen. How different were these visits from those of Henri and Diane! The children did not rush to their father and climb over him; they curtsied and, under their mothers gaze, paid their respectful homage to him as their King.

The Maréchal and Madame d’Humières were not present on this occasion, and Janet Fleming was in charge of the children. Mary noticed how particularly pretty she was looking, and that the glance the Queen threw in her direction seemed to be faintly amused.

Mary wanted to know if there was any news from Anet, but under the eyes of the Queen, she dared not ask.

“Lady Fleming,” said the Queen of France, “now that the Dauphin and the Queen of Scotland and Madame Elisabeth are growing older, and Madame Claude will soon be joining them in the nursery, it seems to me that you will need some assistance.”

“Your Majesty is gracious,” said Janet Fleming, with that abstracted look which Mary had noticed lately.

“I am sure,” said the King, “that Lady Fleming manages very well… very well indeed. I am struck with the great care she has always shown of our daughter Mary.”

The Queen’s lips twitched very slightly. “Like Your Majesty I too am sure that Lady Fleming is admirable, but I do not wish her strength to be overtaxed.”

“Overtaxed?” reflected the King, frowning at his wife.

“By so many children. And the Maréchal and Madame d’Humières have so much with which to occupy themselves. I do not wish dear Lady Fleming to work all the time she is with us, and I should like her to have some little respite from her duties. I should like her to enjoy a little gaiety.”

The King looked sharply at the Queen, but Catherine had laid her beautiful white hands on her stomacher and lowered her eyes. Her smile was almost smug. Mary wondered whether the rumors were true and that she was going to have another baby.

“I know,” went on the Queen, smiling affectionately at the King, “how greatly Your Majesty esteems those who look after our children. Therefore I would beg for a few privileges for my Lady Fleming. I will send someone to assist her so that she may have a little more time for pleasure. Madame de Paroy is well skilled and most fitted to help in the nurseries. If Your Majesty would agree to her doing so, it would give her the greatest pleasure and, as for myself, I should feel that I had assisted our good Lady Fleming to obtain a little of the pleasure she deserves.”

Madame de Paroy in the nurseries! That hideous old woman with the crafty eyes—the Queen’s spy! Mary felt the hot color rise to her cheeks. Forgetting ceremony she ran to the King and took his hand. “Please… please, dearest Papa, do not send Madame de Paroy here. Please!”

The King looked down at her in some astonishment. He ought to be angry with her for thus addressing him on an occasion when it was clear that ceremony was demanded; but he found it difficult to be angry with children, and such a beautiful child as this one, whatever she did, could not arouse anything but his wish to please her.

“My dear child,” he began helplessly; then he smiled. “Why, how vehement you are!”

The Dauphin had come to the other side of his father. “Papa,” he said, “please do not send Madame de Paroy here.”

“Why do you not want her?” asked the King.

The Dauphin did not answer. He looked to Mary for guidance. “Come,” said the King, “speak for yourself. Why do you not want her?”

“Because… because Mary does not.”

The Queen gave her sudden laugh. “Ah! So in the nursery Scotland already rules France!”

“And Elisabeth, what does she wish?” asked the King.

Elisabeth came forward and, keeping her eyes on her father’s face while she elaborately turned away from her mother, said: “I wish what François and Mary wish.”

“So Madame de Paroy is unanimously rejected!” cried the King.

The Queen laughed. “You see, Lady Fleming, your charges defeat my good intentions.”

“Your Majesty is very gracious,” said Janet. “I think you for your solicitude.”

“And these young people will have none of my Madame de Paroy, eh? Well, well! We will forget I suggested it.”

Mary could not help throwing a triumphant glance at the Queen. She knew that Catherine had particularly wished Madame de Paroy to come. What she wants, thought Mary, is to set a woman to spy on us, and she lacks the courage to insist. I despise her.

While the Queen talked to the children about their lessons, Lady Fleming showed the King some of their essays. They were bending over them and the King looked pleased. Janet, flushed and excited to find herself so popular in such exalted company, ventured to say something which had been in her mind for some time.

“Your Majesty, may I make a request?”

The King’s smile was very friendly. “Lady Fleming, please do.”

“It concerns my very personal affairs, and doubtless I should not bother Your Majesty with it at all.”

“I shall be happy to give my attention to your personal affairs, and if there is anything I can do to help you, I shall be well pleased indeed.”

“It concerns one of my sons, Your Majesty. He is a prisoner of the English. He has long been in their hands and I cannot bring about his liberation. I thought that if Your Majesty would intercede for me with the Queen-Mother of Scotland, perhaps she might arrange to exchange an English prisoner for my son.”

“It would please me greatly,” said the King, “if I could be sure of granting this request. As it is I shall do my utmost. I will write this day to my cousin of Scotland and suggest to her that there might be an exchange of prisoners.”

His eyes were very warm and friendly. Janet was excited. It was a long time since she had had a lover, and now it occurred to her that the next one might be none other than the King of France. No wonder she was excited. No wonder that, in spite of her age, she looked like a young girl in her teens.

Even the children noticed the change in her. The only one who did not seem to notice was Queen Catherine.

MARY LAY in bed; she could not sleep. She was suffering from pains which were not unfamiliar to her. She had eaten more than usual. She had such a healthy appetite, and she looked upon it as a duty to set a good example to François and Elisabeth who pecked at their food. The meal, presided over by Madame d’Humières and the Maréchal, had been much as usual. There were joints of veal and lamb; there were geese, chickens, pigeons, hares, larks and partridges; and Mary had done justice to all, with the result that, although there was to be a grand ball, she had had to retire early on account of her pains.

There had been some amusement about this ball because it had been arranged by the Queen and, oddly enough, the Constable de Montmorency had helped her with the arrangements. Young as she was, Mary was very intelligent and eager to learn all she could concerning Court matters; and with her four little Marys to assist her she could not help being aware of the tension which was inevitable in a Court where the Queen was submitted to perpetual humiliation, and the Kings mistress enjoyed all—and more—of those honors which should have been the Queens.

With the aging mistress sick at Anet—some said dying—that tension must increase. Would the Queen seek to regain some of her rights? Would some beautiful and ambitious lady seek to fill Diane’s place?

François and Elisabeth and little Claude might have watched the ball from one of the galleries. The French children would have enjoyed that more than mingling with the guests, but Mary would have wished to be with the dancers in a dazzling gown, her chestnut hair flowing, and all the gentlemen paying her laughing compliments and speaking of the enchantress she would become when she grew up. But alas, she was too sick to attend and must lie in bed instead.

Janet Fleming had talked continually of the ball, but Mary had felt too sick to listen. She had drunk the posset Queen Catherine had given her, and afterward had felt some misgivings. She had heard rumors about the Queens Italian cupbearer who had been torn asunder by wild horses when the King’s elder brother had died—of poison, some said, and others added: poison administered by Catherine de Médicis. Mary could not rid herself of the idea that Catherine wished her ill.

“Here,” Catherine had said, “this is what I call my gourmands dose. Do you know what Your Scottish Majesty is suffering from? A surfeit of goose-flesh, like as not. You have been overgreedy at the table.”

Mary had grown hot with indignation as Catherine had bent over to look into her face.

“You’re flushed,” said Catherine. “Is it a fever, or have I upset your dignity? The truth can be as indigestible as gooseflesh, my dear Reinette.”

And Mary had had to swallow the hideous stuff and lie in bed nursing a sore stomach while others danced.

It was near midnight but she could not sleep. She could hear the sound of music from the great ballroom.

Before going to the ball Janet Fleming had come into the apartment to show Mary her costume. Everyone was to be masked. Those were the Queens orders. The idea of the Queen and the Constable planning a ball! The whole Court was rocking with amusement. They would not miss Madame Diane tonight… not even the King.

“How I wish I could be with you,” sighed the little Queen.

“Has her Majesty’s posset done you no good then?”

“I am not sure that she meant it to. She hates me because I would not have Madame de Paroy in the nurseries.”

“You are a bold creature, darling Majesty, to go against the Queen of France.”

“Would you want Paroy in the nurseries?”

“Holy Mother of God, indeed I would not! Why, if she knew that the King had shown me … a little friendship, Heaven alone knows what she might tell the Queen. But… my tongue runs away with me and I shall be late for the ball.”

Mary put her arms round her aunt’s neck and kissed her. “Come and see me when the ball is over. I shall want to hear all about it,” said Mary.

So now she lay in bed waiting for the ball to be over.

She slept for a while, and when she awoke it was to silence. So the ball was over and her aunt had not come as she had promised. Faint moonlight shone through the windows, lighting the room. She sat up in bed, listening. Her pains had gone and she felt well and wide awake. But she was angry; she always was when she suspected she had been treated as a child. Lady Fleming had no doubt come in to tell her about the ball and, finding her asleep, had tiptoed away—just as though she were a baby.

Mary got out of bed and, putting a wrap about her shoulders, crept across the room to that small chamber in which Lady Fleming slept. She drew back the curtains of the bed. It was empty. Lady Fleming had not yet come up, although the ball was over.

Mary got into Janet’s bed to wait for her. She waited for a long time before she fell asleep; it was beginning to grow light when she was awakened by Janet’s returning.

Mary sat up in bed and stared at her aunt. She was wearing the costume she had worn at the ball, but it appeared to be crumpled and was torn in several places.

“What is it?” asked Mary.

“Hush! For the love of the saints do not wake anybody.” Janet began to take off the costume.

“But what has happened?” insisted Mary. “You look as though you have been set upon by robbers and yet are rather pleased about it.”

“You must tell no one of this, as you love your Fleming. You should not be here. You should be punished for wandering from your bed in the night. The Queen would punish you.”

“Perhaps she would punish you, too, for wandering in the night. I command you to tell me what has happened to you.”

Janet got into bed and put her arms about Mary. “What if another has commanded silence?” she said with a laugh.

“I am the Queen …”

“Of Scotland, my dearest. What if I had received a higher command?”

“The Queen… Queen Catherine?”

“Higher than that!” Lady Fleming kissed the Queen of Scots. “I am so happy, darling. I am the happiest woman in France. One day I shall be able to serve you as I should wish. One day you shall ask me for something you want, and I will perhaps, through the Kings grace, be able to give it to you.”

Mary was excited. Here was one of the mysteries which occurred in the lives of grown-up people; here was a glimpse into the exciting world in which one day she would have a part to play.

“There is one thing I will ask you now,” she said. “It is never to allow that dreary de Paroy to come near the nursery.”

“That I can promse you,” said Janet gleefully. “She is banished from this day.”

They lay together smiling, each thinking of the glorious future which lay ahead of her.

MARY FORGOT the excitement of the Court for a while. With her four friends she went to stay with her grandmother at Meudon. Her grandfather, Duke Claude, was very ill and not expected to live. She knew that soon her uncle François would be the Duke of Guise and head of the house. But she did not see him. It was her uncle, Cardinal Charles, with whom she spent much of her time.

They would walk about the estate together and the Cardinal’s eyes would gleam as they watched her. He studied her so closely that Mary blushed for fear he would find some fault in her. There were occasions when he would take her into his private chamber; she would sit on his knee and he would fondle her. He frightened her a little, while he fascinated her; her wide eyes would stare, almost involuntarily, at those long slim fingers which ceaselessly caressed her. She did not know whether she liked or hated those caresses. They fascinated yet repelled. Sometimes he would make her look into his face, and it was as though he were making her subject to his will. His long light eyes with the dark lashes were so beautiful that she wanted to look at them, although she was afraid; they were tender and malicious, gentle and cruel; and beneath them were faint shadows. His mouth was straight and long; it was the most beautiful mouth she had ever seen when it smiled—and it smiled often for her.

There was a delicious odor about his person; it clung to his linen. He bathed regularly; he was, it was said, the most fastidious gentleman of France. Jewels glittered on his hands, and the colors of those jewels were tastefully blended. Her grandparents were in some awe of him and seemed to have almost as much respect for him as they had for Uncle François.

“Always obey your Uncle François and your Uncle Charles,” she was continually told.

That was what they all wished to impress upon her. Even her new brother—whom she discovered in her grandparents’ house—the Duc de Longueville, the son of her mother by her first husband, hinted and implied that it was her duty.

Everyone was telling her that the most important thing in the world was the power of the Guises, and as she played with her Marys she could not completely forget it. She felt like a plant in a forcing house on those occasions in the perfumed chamber of the Cardinal when he talked to her of her duty and how she must make young François her completely devoted slave so that he gave way to her in all things.

“When you are older,” said the Cardinal, putting his hands on her shoulders and pressing her small body to his, “when you begin to bud into womanhood, then, my sweet and beautiful niece, you must learn how to make the Dauphin entirely yours.”

“Yes, Monsieur le Cardinal.”

He laid his cool lips against her forehead, and, when she received his kiss, for some reason she could not understand she began to tremble.

WHEN MARY returned to Court the excitement regarding the King and Diane had reached its zenith, for Diane was recovered and had come back to Court.

Mary overheard strange whispers.

“Now the fun will start.”

“While the cat is away the mice play.”

“And do you know that mice are very fertile?”

“My dear Duchesse!”

“My dear Count, I assure you, I have noticed!”

Lady Fleming, Mary realized, was more excited than ever.

One day when Mary was in her apartment, she heard her governess talking to one of the Queen’s ladies. Janet was saying: “Yes, it is true, and God be thanked for it. I am with child by the King and I feel honored. I feel so full of health. There is some magical property in the royal blood, I’ll swear!”

Mary was astounded. She decided she would seek out Lady Fleming and demand a full explanation; but when she sought her she could not find her. None of the attendants appeared to know what had happened to her. The King was riding with Madame de Valentinois who had returned from Anet. She was somewhat frail but more beautiful than ever, and the King was like a devoted husband who, after a long separation, is able to enjoy the beloved company of his wife. He could not leave the Duchesse’s side; he must spend every minute with her. Perhaps he wished to explain a little affair in which he had regrettably indulged during her absence; perhaps he wished to tell her that it should never have happened—and would not, had she been there—that it had been begun in a moment of desperate longing for herself.

And she would understand. She would tell him that she understood him now as she had when he was a shy prince with no thought of mounting the throne. She had shown him how to act like a great prince; now she would show him how to act like a great king.

Life would be as it had always been at Court. Queen Diane would rule through the King; those entwined initials H and D were as firm as they had ever been, as closely entwined. The foolish Fleming woman would have to be banished from Court and then forgotten. It was no indiscretion to bear the King’s bastard. The folly lay in boasting of the honor.

The Queen of France agreed with her husband and his mistress. She was eager to help. Would the King allow her to deal with this little matter? He knew how she abhorred scandal. The little peccadillo she accepted. It was inevitable. It was the flouting of Court etiquette that she could not endure.

The King and Diane were grateful to her. Neither of them wished to hear any more of the disposal of the matter, which they felt sure could be left entirely to the Queens capable handling.

CATHERINE CAME stealthily into Lady Fleming’s chamber. Janet rose from the bed on which she was lying and fell to her knees before the Queen of France. She lifted fearful eyes to the flat expressionless face.

“You may rise,” said Catherine. She laughed suddenly. “We should not have known yet,” she added, “had you not boasted so freely.”

“Your Majesty, I implore your forgiveness….”

The Queen lifted her shoulders. “The King chose to honor you. You should not ask my forgiveness for that. How many times?”

“Your Majesty…”

“How many times?” insisted the Queen. Again that laugh. “So many that you cannot remember? It began on the night of the masque which I arranged. Well, now Madame de Valentinois has returned, and your services are no longer required.”

“Your Majesty, I will be content to obey your command.”

“My command is that you leave the Court this night.”

“Leave the Court…”

“Have no fear. Arrangements have been made. Remember you carry a royal bastard. You will be cared for and doubtless the child will be brought to Court. The King, as you have doubtless heard, had a child by a girl of Piedmont. It happened when he was away from France. You understand? The blood is hot and there is always some wanton at hand who can amuse for an hour until something better can be found.” The Queen laughed again. “It is the way of all men, my dear Lady Fleming, and kings are no exceptions.”

Janet covered her face with her hands and began to cry. “Madame,” she sobbed, “I beg of you, let me stay. I have been sent here to guard the Queen of Scots.”

“I have another guardian for her. Do not weep so. It is bad for the child. Be prepared to leave in an hour. Where you are going you will have women to talk to. You may tell them how you were got with child by a most exalted person, but you shall not mention his name although you may describe all else in detail.”

The door opened and Mary stood on the threshold.

“I have looked everywhere—” she began, and saw the Queen of France. She immediately curtsied.

“Ah,” said Catherine, “here is her Scottish Majesty.”

“I … I had no idea that I should find you here, Madame,” said Mary. “I came to look for Fleming.”

“You are just in time to say good-bye to her.”

“Good-bye!”

Mary forgot ceremony. She ran to her aunt and threw her arms about her.

“Dearest Aunt Janet, what does this mean?”

“I… I … I am going away.”

“Oh, no, no!” cried Mary. “Is it… because of the King’s child?”

Catherine interrupted. “So the Queen of Scots shares the knowledge of your lechery?”

Mary said: “Madame, Lady Fleming is my governess.”

“No longer, my child.”

“No longer!”

“Lady Fleming is no longer considered a person fit to hold that position.”

“But who says so?”

“I say so.”

“Madame, Lady Fleming is my aunt.”

“We all have our disreputable relations. Pray do not apologize for her.”

“I … I wish to have her with me.”

“My dear Reinette, you are in the charge of the King and myself and we have decided otherwise.”

“I… I do not understand.”

“I am glad of that. I had feared that under the influence of your lecherous relative you might have become quite depraved.”

“Please, Madame, do not torment us.”

“I? I have nothing but your welfare at heart. Young girls can quickly fall into trouble, particularly if they are fairly handsome and have a good opinion of themselves. I have a new governess for you. She will come to you this day. You will be pleased to hear that Madame de Paroy is taking over those duties which Lady Fleming has proved unworthy to perform.” The Queen smiled and turned to Lady Fleming. “In an hour—do not forget.” And to Mary: “Madame de Paroy will be with you shortly.”

The Queen walked out of the room and Lady Fleming threw herself on to her bed and gave way to wild weeping.

Mary stood still, her face white and angry, staring at the door.

THE QUEEN OF FRANCE brought the woman into the apartment. Madame de Paroy could not hide her satisfaction, and the Queen was smiling blandly.

“Ah, Madame de Paroy, here are your charges.”

The four little girls had arranged themselves behind Mary.

“The Queen of Scots waits to welcome you,” said Catherine.

Mary’s eyes were sullen. She had seen the King. She had entreated him not to send Lady Fleming away and had begged him not to put Madame de Paroy in her place. The King was as kind as he always was; but he was ill at ease. He had said very kindly that such matters were the business of ladies. It was not his province to appoint a governess for his dear daughter of Scotland. He wished to please her, he wished to make her happy; but he was sure the Queen had the same intentions towards her. It had been necessary for her Scots governess to go away—there were matters beyond the understanding of little girls—and she must trust her guardians to do what was best for her.

In despair Mary had sought out Diane. Diane received her with the utmost affection.

“My dearest child,” said the King’s mistress, “there are matters which you are too young to understand. Lady Fleming has to leave Court, and Queen Catherine would deeply resent any interference in this matter of choosing your governess. She has your well-being at heart. You may trust her to do what is best for you.”

Mary sensed that neither the King nor Diane were really giving her their attention, and she realized suddenly how impotent she was. They had petted her because it had been easy to pet her, and she had acquired an opinion of herself which was too exalted. She was but a child here as she had been in Scotland; she was at the mercy of the grown-up world, and the love which these charming people had given her was only a minute part of their lives.

She was thinking of these things as she advanced to greet the Queen and Madame de Paroy.

“We wish you to smile for Madame de Paroy,” said Catherine.

But Mary would not or could not smile. Her lips froze; she could only glower at the ugly figure of the new governess. Catherine took Mary’s ear and pinched it hard. She smiled as she did so.

“The Queen of Scotland has much to learn, Madame de Paroy,” said the Queen.

Mary wanted to scream because of the pain in her ear. She felt all alone. The King and Diane were riding away from her. They were leaving her to the mercy of these women.

“I have found it necessary,” went on Catherine, “to chastise my own sons, knowing that one day they may be Kings of France. Kings… Queens … all have to learn their lessons, and when pride grows to abnormal proportions it can best be subdued with a stick. There is nothing like a stick applied to the body to drive away a false sense of superiority. Do you agree with me, Madame de Paroy?”

“I do indeed, Your Majesty.”

“Now,” said Catherine, “a smile of welcome for your new governess.”

Mary opened her lips showing her pretty teeth. She had to free her ear or cry out with the pain.

“Hmmm” said Catherine, “not a very bright smile. But it will suffice for the present.”

Mary was repeating under her breath: “Vulgar… beast… tradesman’s daughter … no true Queen … I hate you.”

She would say it aloud when she was alone with her Marys.

She was looking at the Queen and the new governess through a haze of tears. Catherine was well satisfied. The Queen of Scotland had just begun to learn what it meant to pit her puny strength against that of the Queen of France.

THREE

IN THE VAST ROOM AT SAINT-GERMAIN THE CHILDREN OF the royal household were assembled as was their custom at this hour.

In a window seat sat Mary—one of the eldest and certainly the most beautiful. She was holding court as she loved to do. Monsieur du Bellay was reading one of his poems, and those who gathered about her—among them Ronsard and Maison-Fleur, those great Court poets—knew that it had been written for her.

“Contentez vous, mes yeux,

Vous ne verrez jamais une chose pareille.”

Ronsard and du Bellay had been the leaders of that coterie which called itself the Pleïade after a group of seven ancient Greek poets, and had been chosen by Marguerite, the King’s sister, to be literary tutors of the royal children and those young people who shared the nursery. Their favorite pupil was Mary, not only on account of her beauty which inspired them to lyrical verse, but because of her response to their own work and of that literary talent which she herself possessed.

All eyes were on her now. François the Dauphin openly admired her, and he was anxious that all should remember she was to be his bride. His brother Charles, though only seven years old, was already one of Mary’s admirers. There was also Henri de Montmorency, the second son of Anne, the great Constable, and he could not take his eyes from her face.

Mary was content at such times. She needed such adulation. The last six years of her life had not been easy; Madame de Paroy was still with her and had turned out to be all that Mary feared. Mean-spirited, she lost no time in reporting the least misdemeanor, and she and the Queen never allowed the smallest error to go unpunished. Mary had been made to understand that she was as subject to discipline as any of the other children. She had been chastised as they had; but she had suffered far more from the loss of her dignity than from any physical pain.

In vain had she tried to rid herself of the woman. She had implored her mother to appoint a new governess; her uncle, the Cardinal, realizing the woman to be a spy of the Queen of France, had added his pleas to Mary’s, but in this matter Catherine stood firm, and neither the King nor Diane cared to interfere in a situation which had come about through the indiscretion of the King.

Lady Fleming had never returned to France, although her son remained to be brought up as a royal child; he was often in the nurseries, a bright, intelligent boy who quickly won his father’s affection. But Janet had had to take up her residence in Scotland.

So, at such times as this one when she could escape from the supervision of Madame de Paroy, Mary was happy, with François her constant companion and Charles showing his affection for her. She wished that Charles were not so wild and would grow out of those unaccountable rages of his. When they were on him he would suddenly kick walls, his dogs or his servants, whichever happened to be at hand. It was disconcerting. But she loved both brothers with a deep protective love. That did not mean that she was not becoming increasingly aware of the ardent looks sent in her direction by young Henri de Montmorency.

There were so many people at the Court to tell her how lovely she was. Monsieur Brantôme, the writer, assured her that her beauty radiated like the sun in the noonday sky. Her uncle, François, Duc de Guise, the great soldier and idol of Paris, exclaimed when he saw her: “By the saints! You are the fairest creature in France!” Uncle Charles, the Cardinal of Lorraine, held her face in his beautiful scented hands and looked long into her eyes, declaring: “Your beauty will charm all France!” The King himself whispered to her that she was the loveliest of his daughters; and it seemed that all men were ready to sing the praises of Mary Stuart. Lately, devoted as she was to her dear François, she had begun to wish that he looked a little more like Henri de Montmorency.

There were now thirty children in the royal nurseries, for many of the sons and daughters of noble houses were being brought up there. It was a world in itself consisting of ten chamberlains, nine cellarers, thirty-seven pages and twenty-eight valets de chambres, besides doctors, surgeons, apothecaries and barbers. The amount of food consumed by this community each day was prodigious. Twenty-three dozen loaves were baked each morning and eaten before nightfall; eight sheep, four calves, twenty capons as well as pigeons, pullets, hares and other delicacies went the same way. The Dauphin and Mary had in addition their separate establishments with a further retinue of servants, but much of their time was spent in these main apartments.

The family of royal children had grown considerably since Mary had first come to France. These children were scattered about the room now.

Twelve-year-old Elisabeth and her sister Claude who was slightly younger were in Mary’s group. Poor little Louis had died seven years ago and Charles was now the boy next in age to François. There was young Henri, who had been christened Edouard Alexandre but was always called Henri by his mother. He had just passed his sixth birthday and was extraordinarily handsome, with dark flashing eyes and the features of his mother’s Italian ancestors. He was the only one of the children whom Queen Catherine spoiled, and consequently he was very vain. Mary watched him displaying the earrings he was wearing.

There was little Marguerite, whom Charles had nicknamed Margot, precocious and vivacious and looking older than her five years; and lastly Hercule, the baby, a pretty, chubby boy of three.

Pierre de Ronsard was sitting beside her; he saw that her attention was wandering as she surveyed the children.

“Since Monsieur du Bellay’s verses do not interest Your Majesty, may I read some of mine?” he asked.

Mary held up her hand, laughing. “No more verses just now please. Let us talk of you. Tell us of your early life and how, with your friends, you formed that group of poets called the Pleïade”

They gathered round while Ronsard told, in his clever and amusing way, of the Court of Scotland whither he had gone long before the birth of Mary, when her fathers first wife had arrived from France.

He told how one day he had discovered a gentleman of the Court reading a small volume, how he had taken it, and once he had experienced the magic of those pages he had known that his life would be barren if it were not devoted to literature. He told of Cassandre, the woman he had loved; he quoted the sonnets he had written to her. He went on to speak of his life in the house of Jean Antoine Baïf where there was great poverty but greater love of literature.

“We were worshipers in the temple of literature. It mattered not that we were cold and hungry. It mattered not that we shared one candle between us. We studied Greek and Latin, and literature was food and drink to us—our need and our pleasure. Then we discussed our great desire to make France the center of learning. We would enrich France; we would make her fertile. Literature was the gentle rain and the hot sun which would ripen the seed and give us a rich harvest. So we formed the Pléiade—seven of us—and with myself, du Bellay and Baïf as the leaders, the Pléiade was to shine from the heavens and light all France.”

Henri de Montmorency had moved closer to Mary.

His passionate eyes looked into hers.

“Would it were possible to speak with you alone!” he whispered.

SHE DID meet him alone. She had wandered through the gardens of Fontainebleau, through the great courtyard and past the fountains, and had made her way to the walled garden.

Then she saw Henri de Montmorency approaching her. He was the second son of the great Constable of France whom the King loved and who, to his great grief, had been captured by the Imperial troops at the defeat of Saint Quentin and now lay a prisoner of Philip of Spain. How handsome he was, this Henri; he was so elegant in satin and velvet, the colors of which—pink and green—blended so perfectly. The jewels he wore had been carefully chosen. Henri de Montmorency—one of the most favored young men of the Court because his father had been, and doubtless would be again, one of the most powerful—was a leader of fashion and good taste.

“Your Majesty!” He took Mary’s hand and raised it to his lips. The eyes he lifted to hers were ardent.

She had no wish for such love as she believed was customary throughout the palaces of Fontainebleau, Blois, Amboise, Chambord, or anywhere the Court happened to be. The love which François the Dauphin had for her was the love she wished for. She enjoyed the love of the poets—idealistic and remote; she enjoyed the ardent admiration of Charles. There was, also, the strange and somewhat mystic love which her uncle, the Cardinal of Lorraine, bore her. Those caressing hands which seemed to imply so much, those queer searching looks, those lingering kisses, that spiritual love as he had described it, disturbed her; it frightened her too, but she was child enough to enjoy being a little frightened. She was always afraid, when she was with the Cardinal, that his love for her would change and become something wild and horrible; she fancied that he too was conscious that it might, and that he took a delight in holding his passion on a leash which he would, from time to time, slacken so that it came near to her and yet did not quite reach her. She could not imagine what would happen if it did, but something within her told her that it never would because the Cardinal did not wish it; and in all things the Cardinal’s will was hers.

All these loves were different from the love of ordinary mortals; pawing, kissing, giggling and scuffling she would not have. She was a queen and would be treated as such.

Yet here was Henri de Montmorency, beautiful as she herself was beautiful, young as she herself was young, and offering yet another sort of love, a charming and romantic idyll.

“I saw you enter the garden,” he said breathlessly. “I could not resist following you.”

“We should not be here alone, Monsieur de Montmorency.”

“I must see you alone sometimes. Sometimes we must do that which is forbidden. Does not Your Majesty agree?”

“It is wrong to do that which is forbidden.”

“Can we be sure of that? I am happier now than I have been since I first set eyes on you.”

“But I do not think you should speak thus to me, Monsieur de Montmorency.”

“Forgive me. I speak thus out of desperation. I adore you. I must let you know of my feelings. Many love you, but none could do so with more passion, with more devotion and more hopelessness than your devoted servant Henri de Montmorency.”

He took her hands and kissed them with passion. She tried to withdraw them for she was conscious of emotion never before experienced, and she was afraid. She could not help comparing him with François. I am being disloyal to dear François! she thought in dismay.

“You are not indifferent to me!” cried Henri.

“We should return to the palace,” said Mary uneasily.

“Just a few more moments, I beg of you. I love you and I am wretched because shortly I must see you married to the Dauphin.”

“That must not make you miserable. It is my destiny, and doubtless you have yours.”

“My father, when he returns, will seek to marry me with the granddaughter of Madame de Valentinois. Oh, how wretched is this life! We are counters to be moved this way and that, and our loves and our desires go for naught. You will be married to the Dauphin. Your destiny is to be Queen of France and I… mine is a lesser one, but I am to ally my house with that of the King’s mistress. I wish we could run away from France … to some unknown island far away from here…. Would you were not a queen! Would I were not the son of my father! If you were a peasant girl and I a poor fisherman, how much happier we might be!”

Mary could not imagine herself stripped of her royalty. She would never forget that she was a queen, she believed. But she was moved by his words and the eager devotion she saw in his eyes.

He went on bitterly: “My father has five sons and seven daughters and all must be used to favor the fortunes of our house. My elder brother loved a girl—deeply he loved her. He thought he would die of love, and for a long time he stood out against our fathers wishes. But now you see he is married to the Kings bastard daughter, Diane of France, and our house is made greater by alliance with the royal one. Now if I marry the granddaughter of Madame de Valentinois, I shall strengthen the link. Not only shall we be allied to the royal house but with that of the King’s mistress. What strength will be ours! What greatness! And all brought about because we have been moved as counters into the right squares on the board. They are flesh and blood, those counters; they cry out in anguish; but that is unimportant. All that matters is that our house grows great.”

“What are you saying, Monsieur de Montmorency?”

“That I would run away with you … far away… where all are merely men and women and there is no policy to be served, no great house that is of more moment than our happiness. Dearest Mary, if only we could run away together, far away from the kingdom of France where they will make you a queen, far away from that land where you are already a queen. Mary, did you know that in your country many of the nobles have signed the Solemn League and Covenant to forsake and renounce what they call the Congregation of Satan? That means they follow the new religion; they have cut themselves off from Rome. Yours will soon be a land of heretics. Oh, Mary, I see trouble there for you. You … a good Catholic… and Queen of a heretic land!”

“I know nothing of this,” she said.

“Then I should not have spoken of it.”

“I made my mother Regent of Scotland. I signed the documents some years ago.”

“Oh, Mary, they tell you what to sign and what not to sign. They tell you to marry and you marry. Oh, dearest and most beautiful, let us dream just for a moment of the impossible. Do you love me … a little?”

She was excited by his charm and the wild words he spoke. She was happy in this scented garden. But she knew she should not listen to him and that she could never be happy if she were disloyal to François. She turned away frowning.

“I see,” he said bitterly, “that they have molded you as they wished. You will be their docile Queen. You will sign the documents they put before you; you will sign away your life’s happiness when they ask it.”

“When I am the wife of François,” she said angrily, “I shall be assured of a lifetimes happiness, Monsieur.”

She turned to leave him and as she did so she saw that two people had entered the garden. The rich red robes of the Cardinal of Lorraine were brilliant beside the more somber garments of Queen Catherine.

Mary heard the sudden burst of laughter which she had grown to hate over the years. Catherine’s amusement was, she believed, invariably provoked at someone else’s discomfiture.

“Ah, Cardinal, our birds are trapped,” the Queen was saying. “And what pleasant-looking birds, eh? We might say ‘birds of paradise.’ They look startled, do they not? As though they were about to be seized by the hawk.”

“Or by the serpent, Madame,” said the Cardinal.

“Poor creatures! What hope of escape would they have between the two!”

“Very little, Madame. Very little.”

Mary and Montmorency had hurried forward to pay their respects, first to the Queen, then to the Cardinal.

The Queen said: “So you two charming people are taking the air. I marvel, Monsieur de Montmorency, that you do not do so in the company of another young lady… not the Queen of Scotland. And I should have expected to see my son with her Scottish Majesty.”

“We met by chance, Madame,” said Mary quickly, but the color rose to her cheeks.

The Cardinal was looking at her quizzically. Because he had made her aware of those occasions when she caused him displeasure, she knew now that he was far from pleased at discovering her thus.

As for the Queen, she was delighted. Mary sometimes thought that the Queen did not wish her to marry the Dauphin, and that she would be very pleased if Mary had been seriously attracted by Montmorency.

The Cardinal said: “Her Majesty and I, as you no doubt did, found the afternoon too pleasant to be spent with walls about us.”

Before Mary could answer, Catherine said: “The Queen of Scots appears to be in a fever.” Her long slender fingers touched Mary’s cheek. “You are overheated, my dear.”

“I have a headache. I was about to return to the cool of the palace.”

“Ah yes, the cool of the palace. That is the place for you. The bed, eh… with the curtains drawn, and no one to disturb you—that is the best remedy for the sort of fever which possesses your Scottish Majesty.”

Hating the insinuation contained in the Queens words, conscious of the discomfort of Henri de Montmorency and the displeasure of the Cardinal, Mary said impulsively: “Your Majesty has vast knowledge of such things. It is due to your keen observation of the conditions of others, rather than your experience of such maladies. But I dare submit you are mistaken on this occasion. It is a slight headache from the heat of the sun.”

The white hand, laden with rings, came down heavily on Mary’s shoulder. Mary winced under her grip.

“I am rarely mistaken,” said Catherine. “You are right when you speak of the keenness of my observation. Little can be hid from me. Now, Monsieur de Montmorency will escort you to the palace.” Catherine released Mary’s shoulder. “And do not forget my remedy. Your bed… the curtains drawn… the door locked to keep out your women. That is what you need. Go along… now. The Cardinal and I will continue our walk in the sunshine.”

Mary curtsied, Montmorency bowed, and the two walked back to the palace. As soon as possible Mary took leave of him and went to her apartments.

Flem and Beaton hurried to her anxiously, but she waved them aside. She had a headache; she would rest and she did not wish to be disturbed.

THE CURTAINS about Mary’s bed were silently withdrawn. Mary opened her eyes and saw, standing by the bed, the scarlet-clad figure of the Cardinal. She smelled the perfume of musk which accompanied him, and saw the glittering emeralds and rubies on his folded hands.

“Monsieur?” she cried, starting up.

“Nay, do not rise, my child,” he said; he sat on the bed and laid a hand on her hot forehead.

She lay back on her pillows.

“How lovely you are!” he murmured. “You are very beautiful, my dearest. But you are distressed now.”

“I… I came here to rest.”

“On the advice of Her Majesty!”

“I did not expect anyone would come in.”

“You would not have your guardian uncle kept out?”

“No… no… but…”

“Rest easily, my dear child. There is no need to be afraid. The Queen was right to suggest you should return to the palace. It is not good for one of your purity and budding beauty to be seen in intimate conversation with a young man of Montmorency’s reputation.”

“His… reputation!”

“Ah! You are startled. I see that you have more regard for this young man than I believed.”

“I did not know he had an evil reputation.”

“All young men have evil reputations.”

“That, Uncle, is surely not true.”

“Or they would,” went on the Cardinal, smiling, “if all their deeds and all their thoughts were known. They sport their jewels to show their worldly riches. What if they should wear their experiences to show their worldly wisdom, eh? Then our simple maidens might not so easily become their victims… their light-o’-loves to be discussed and dissected for their companions’ pleasure. Ah, you should hear the bawdy talk of some of these gallants when they are with others of their kind. You would be horrified. It is quite different from the sweet words which they employ as the prelude to seduction.”

“I will not be included among those simple maidens!”

“Indeed you shall not.” He slipped his arm under her and leaning forward, gazed into her face. He let his lips linger on her throat, and she felt her heart leap and pound. She could not move and it was as though she were bound by invisible cords. In his eyes there was a flame, in his arms a subtle pressure. Now he had unleashed this strange emotion which he had created; now it was about to envelop her. She was terrified, yet fascinated.

He was speaking softly. “Nay, you are no simple maiden, my dearest, my other self. My Mary, I love you as I have never loved anyone. Together we will explore the world of the spirit. You and I shall be as one, Mary, and together we will rule France.”

“I do not understand you….”

“You cannot expect to yet, but one day you will understand all that you are to me, and how I have preserved you and kept you sweet and pure.”

His mood had changed. The emotions were subdued. He sat up. He was smiling and his eyes were extraordinarily brilliant in his pale face.

“Mary,” he said, “in your bleak and savage country, I have heard, the men of the Border ravish towns and hamlets. They take the cattle; they take the women. And what do you think they do with these women? They rape them, Mary… in the village streets … on the village greens. They mock them. They insult and humiliate them in a hundred ways you cannot even imagine. That is your wild country; that is Scotland. Here we are supposed to be a civilized people. But are we? Some of these bejeweled gallants with their pretty looks and their flowery speeches, their odes to your beauty—they are very like your Borderers beneath their exquisite garments and their courtly manners. The Borderer rapes; our gallant seduces. The Borderer takes a woman as he would an apple; he discusses the flavor while he tastes. Our gallants pluck their apples in scented orchards; all is apparently decorous. But afterward, they discuss the flavor one with another. That is the difference between the Borderers of Scotland and our gallants. One, you might say, is at least candidly licentious; the other, under the cloak of gallantry, is full of deceit.”

“Why… why do you tell me this?”

“Because, ma mignonne, you are on the verge of womanhood. It is time you were honorably married. Holy Mother of God, your uncle François would run the young Montmorency through with his sword if he knew how he had insulted you in the gardens this day.”

“He did not insult me, Uncle. He was most chivalrous.”

“The first steps toward seduction, my dearest… the first indication that the scented couch is prepared. Even now we do not know that he will not boast of his success to his friends.”

“He dare not! He has nothing of which to boast.”

“The braggart will do very well on very little. I shall have him warned.

As for you, my dearest, you will not be seen in his company alone again. Do not let your manner change. Be friendly with him as you are with others. Only remember that he is another such as your Border raiders; remember that he is doing his utmost to lead you to seduction. Remember that he will note every weakness… any attention you may pay to his words. He will boast to his friends of an easy conquest, and we shall have them all trying to emulate him.”

Mary covered her burning cheeks with her hands.

“Please… Uncle… stop. I cannot bear such thoughts. It was nothing… nothing.”

The Cardinal kissed her forehead.

“My darling, I know it was nothing. Of course, it was nothing. My pure, sweet Mary, who shall remain pure and sweet for the heir of France.” He put his arm about her and held her against him. “If there should be one, other than the heir of France, it shall not be the son of the Constable!”

She caught her breath, for his lips were on hers. It was one of those moments when she sensed danger close. But almost immediately he had stood up and was smiling down on her.

“Rest, my beloved,” he said. “Rest and think on what I have told you.”

She lay still after he had gone, trying to shut out the thoughts which the Cardinal had aroused in her. She could not. She could no longer picture Henri de Montmorency as he had seemed to her that day in the gardens; he was a different person, laughing and leering, calling to others to come and see how he had humiliated the Queen of Scots.

She buried her face in her pillows trying in vain to shut out those pictures.

THE CARDINAL, deeply disturbed, sought out his brother.

“We must hurry on the marriage,” he said. “I am sure it is imperative that we should do so.”

The Duke looked grave. “With Mary so young and the Dauphin even younger…”

“There are two reasons which make it necessary for us to press the King until this marriage is accomplished. I have it from the Dauphin’s doctor that his health is failing fast. What if he were to die before Mary has married him?”

“Disaster!” cried the Duke. “Unless we could secure young Charles for her.”

“He’s nearly ten years younger, and it will be long before he is marriageable. No! Mary must be Dauphine of France before the year is out. I have another reason, brother. I saw her walking in the gardens with the son of our enemy.”

“That remark,” said François cynically, “might indicate the son of almost any man at Court. As our powers grow, so do our enemies. To which one do you refer?”

“Montmorency. The Queen was with me and I have an idea that she was delighted to see those two together. I fancy she tried to make more of the affair than was justified. She was quite coarse, and talked of a bed as the best place to cool Mary’s fever.”

“You alarm me, brother.”

“I mean to. There is reason for alarm. You are the hero of Paris, of all France. You have given back Calais to the King; you bear the mark of heroism on your cheek. The people look at the scar you bear there and cry: “Vive le Balafré!” At this moment you could demand the marriage, and the King would find it hard to refuse you. Take my advice, brother. This is our moment. We should not let it pass.”

The Duke nodded thoughtfully. “I am sure you are right,” he said.

THE KING AND QUEEN received the Duke.

François de Guise, the man of action, did not waste time. He came straight to the point.

“Your Majesties, I have a request to make, and I trust you will give me your gracious attention.”

“It is yours, cousin,” the King assured him.

“It is many years since my niece came to France,” said the Duke, “and it is touching to see the love she and the Dauphin bear toward each other. I know that both these children long for marriage, and my opinion is that it should take place as soon as possible. I am hoping that Your Majesties are of the same opinion.”

The King said: “I think of them as children. It seems only yesterday that I went to the nurseries and found the little Stuart there with François. What a beautiful child! I said then that I had never seen one more perfect, and it holds today.”

“It is a matter of deep gratification to our House,” said the Duke, “that one of our daughters should so please Your Majesty. I venture to say that Mary Stuart will make a charming and popular dauphine.”

Catherine glanced at her husband and murmured: “All you say is true, Monsieur de Guise. The little Stuart is charming. It seems that she only has to smile in order to turn all Frenchmen’s heads. She will indeed be a beautiful dauphine… when the time comes.”

“That time is now,” said the Duke, with that arrogance which was second nature to him.

The King resented his tone, and the Queen lowered her eyes that neither of the men should see that she was pleased by the King’s resentment.

She said quickly: “In my opinion—which I beg Your Majesty and you, Monsieur de Guise, to correct, if it seems wrong to you—these are but two children… two delightful children whom everyone loves and wishes the greatest happiness in the world. I know that to plunge two young children into marriage can be alarming for them. It might even injure that pretty comradeship which delights us all.” She was looking at the King appealingly; she knew she had turned his thoughts back to their own marriage all those years ago when he was a boy, of much the same age as François was now, with a girl beside him, a quiet, plain Italian girl—Catherine herself—whom he had never been able to love.

The King’s lips came tightly together; then he said: “I agree with the Queen. As yet they are too young. Let them wait a year or so.”

In exasperation the Duke began: “Sire, I am of the opinion that these two are ripe for marriage—”

The King interrupted coldly: “Monsieur de Guise, your opinion can be of little moment if, in this matter of our children’s marriage, it differs from that of the Queen and myself.”

The Duke was dismissed. He was furious. He had no alternative but to bow and retire, leaving this matter of the marriage as unsettled now as it had been before he had spoken.

BUT THE Cardinal and the Duke were not the men to let important matters slide. The Cardinal was quite sure that at all costs the delay must be ended.

He walked with the King in the gardens. He was more subtle than his brother. He talked first of the Protestant party in Scotland, of those lords who were in league with John Knox and were turning his little niece’s realm from the Catholic faith. The King, as an ardent Catholic, could well see the danger that lay in that.

“Your Majesty knows that my niece’s bastard brother, Lord James Stuart, is one of these men, and with him are the most powerful men in Scotland—Glencairn, Morton, Lorn, Erskine, Argyle. It is open war against the true faith in Scotland. A sad state of affairs, Your Majesty.”

The King agreed that it was so.

“We shall have them repudiating Mary Stuart next and setting the bastard over them. That, no doubt, is his plan.”

“They’ll never allow a bastard to rule them.”

“Who knows what that fanatic Knox will lead them to! They might well say, better a baseborn Protestant than a true Catholic queen.”

Henri said: “It shall never happen. We’ll send armies to subdue them.”

“Sire, since Saint Quentin we are not as strong as we were. If you will forgive the boldness, may I suggest that these barbarians could be made to respect my niece more if her status were raised. If she were not merely the Queen of Scotland but also the Dauphine of France they would think twice about flouting her in favor of the bastard.”

“The Queen and I, as I told your brother, consider that as yet Mary and François are too young.”

“The Queen and Your Majesty are as usual right. Ah… these little kings-to-be… these queens! Sometimes they must be married before their time. How fortunate it is that our Dauphin is affianced to one whom he has loved almost from her cradle. It is a fate, Sire, which befalls few of any royal house.”

“That’s true, Cardinal. I would wish to see them married but I am loath to spoil that happy and tender comradeship which warms my heart every time I see them together.”

“Your Majesty is not only their devoted King; he is their beloved father.”

“That is how I would have it, Cardinal.”

“And that is how they would have it, I know. I hope Your Majesty will consider it wise to have the children married before you need the help of Scotland next year against the English … as you assuredly will.”

The King was silent. What the Cardinal said was true. He himself was a soldier of some ability and he knew that he might shortly need the help of Scotland. The marriage would make sure of that.

He continued silent and the Cardinal went on: “Your Majesty, I have drafted an agreement which, if signed, would bring great good to France. It is premature, I know, and could not, of course, be signed by Mary Stuart until the marriage is certain; but thinking of the good of our country, and the depression we felt after Saint Quentin …”

“What is this agreement?” asked the King.

“If she could be induced to sign it, it would give her kingdom to the crown of France should she die without heirs; she would also transfer her rights to the crown of England to Your Majesty, or your successors, until a million gold crowns had been paid to France as an indemnity for those monies which France had paid out for the defense of Scotland.”

The King gasped. “But… how can she sign such a document? She has no power to do so without the consent of the Parliament and the Regent.”

“She is the Queen of Scotland. Her signature on the document would make it valid.”

“Would she sign such a document? Poor child, would she understand what she was doing?”

“I will explain it to her.”

The King was uneasy yet desperately tempted. He must be a king first now, and father second. Scotland was an unruly country; it was an unhappy, a tortured country; how much happier it would be, completely depending on France!

“She would sign,” said the Cardinal softly. “She would be only too happy to give you these rights. She loves you. You are her beloved father. She would be only too happy to repay something of all you have done for her.”

The King nodded. The crown of Scotland was being offered to him and his heirs. He could not turn away from it. The temptation was too great.

“I am sure,” said the smooth-voiced Cardinal, “that when she knows she is to be in very truth your daughter, gladly will she put her name to the documents which I shall place before her.”

“I think,” said the King, “that as they love each other and as they have known each other so long, it would please them to know that they are to be married.”

“Soon,” added the Cardinal. “I will break this wonderful news to my niece. I am impatient to witness her joy.”

“And I will break the news to my son. I know he will be the happiest boy in Fontainebleau this day.”

So the King smothered his conscience; the Cardinal—having none—was spared such pains.

THE CARDINAL came to conduct his niece to that chamber wherein the King was waiting for them with Cardinal de Sens, who was the Keeper of the Seals of France, in attendance.

The Cardinal had explained to Mary that this was merely a formality. All she need do was sign her name.

“What paper is it, Uncle?” she asked. “Should I not read it before I sign? You have always said that I should read everything before signing.”

“There is no need to tire yourself. It is such a bore—this language of the lawyers. I can tell you all you want to know. It is a little matter concerning Scotland’s debt to the King. You see, His Majesty and the French have given much money for the defense of Scotland, and you, as the Queen of that land, are going to sign this paper promising that you will arrange that, when Scotland is able to do so, the King is repaid.”

“That is what I would wish,” said Mary.

“Well, that is all it is.”

“But it seems such a solemn occasion for such a small thing, does it not?”

“Remember you are a queen, my child, and now that you are growing up there will be many occasions when some formality, which may seem unnecessary to you, will have to be carried out.”

Mary smiled and allowed the Cardinal to lead her to that chamber in Fontainebleau, and there, with the April sunshine streaming through the windows, put her signature to the documents which gave away that which she had no right to give, and which, although she was a girl not yet sixteen years of age and innocent of wrongdoing, brought great dishonor to her name.

MARY WAS being dressed for her wedding. About her were her four Marys and several attendants who were helping, their eyes bright with admiration and excitement.

Now she stood in her bridal dress; it was so heavy that she could scarcely stand, for its white damask was covered in jewels. Her royal mantle and train of bluish grey velvet was decorated with pearls; her golden crown was studded with pearls and diamonds, sapphires and rubies, and the centerpiece was a hanging carbuncle which alone was worth five hundred thousand crowns.

“You are the most beautiful bride there has ever been!” cried Flem; and the others agreed.

Mary laughed gleefully as she touched the priceless necklace she was wearing. The people in the streets would cheer her as she went from the palace of the Archbishop of Paris—where she, with the royal family, had spent the night—to the Cathedral of Notre Dame. They loved her because she was their charming Reinette, and her marriage to the Dauphin gave them such a show as they had never witnessed before.

François was happy too. He was not very nervous, he had told her, although he would have been terrified if he had had to marry anyone else. The thought of Charles worried Mary a little. He was so sullen; he seemed almost murderous and in deadly earnest when he declared he longed to marry her.

It was a pity that the Commissioners from Scotland had come to see her married, for they reminded her that she was Queen of a kingdom very different from this one. Their odd speech was so strange to her, though she supposed she herself had once spoken it. Their clothes were rough and lacking in elegance; they were suspicious of the French, and it had to be admitted that the French did laugh at them and mock them when they were not present. Mary was a little ashamed of her rough countrymen.

She was worried too about her half brother, Lord James, who had come with them. He had changed since she last saw him; outwardly he was as friendly as ever, but he seemed to be watching her furtively all the time; and she knew that James was among those covenanters who were in league with John Knox.

She was not to trust her brother, the Cardinal had warned her. She was to tell no one of the documents she had signed a short while ago. They were of no great importance, of course, but the Cardinal wished them not to be mentioned.

Mary had for years obeyed the Cardinal without question and she did so now.

But all her uneasiness vanished as she walked along the gallery which had been set up between the palace of the Archbishop of Paris and the Cathedral of Notre Dame.

The King—magnificently jeweled—held Mary’s right hand as they walked along the gallery, while the Duke of Lorraine held her left. Mary’s train was borne by young ladies who could scarcely lift it, so heavy was it with the jewels which adorned it. Behind them came Catherine the Queen and Jeanne the Queen of Navarre, followed by the ladies of the Court in order of precedence.

The King of Navarre walked with the Dauphin, and behind them came the two Princes—Charles, still glowering and sullen, and Edouard Alexandre full of gaiety because he had never worn such jewels as he wore that day.

At the door of the cathedral the procession halted and Mary was brought to stand beside the Dauphin.

Henri Deux took a ring from his finger and gave it to the Cardinal of Bourbon who was waiting to receive it, and there, under the blue sky, so that the people of Paris might witness the marriage ceremony, Mary Queen of Scots was married to François, Dauphin of France.

She smiled at her bridegroom reassuringly, not forgetting even at that moment that he might be in need of comfort. She knew that the crowds and the shouting would make his head ache. She knew that his jeweled garments would weigh him down and make him very tired.

He held her hand tightly and looked at her continually as though to reassure himself that the beautiful vision, arrayed in such glorious apparel, was after all his beloved Mary.

When the ceremony was over they returned to the Archbishop’s palace and sat down to the banquet which had been prepared for them in the grand hall. Mary ate ravenously, for she was very hungry; she urged François to eat, and he did so, saying that although there were so many people about them and the glitter of jewels was almost blinding, and two gentlemen stood behind Mary all the time they ate, holding the crown royal over her head, they were together; they loved each other and everything was the same except that they were married.

Afterward there was dancing. Mary delighted to dance and was enchanted when the King chose her as his partner. Her hand rested in his as they turned slowly in the stately pavanne.

“So you are happy?” asked the King.

“Yes, dearest Papa.”

“Then I am happy too. No one in Paris who saw you this day will ever forget you.”

“I shall never forget this day.”

“You and François should be happy. You do not yet know how fortunate you are.”

Mary had caught sight of François who was dancing with his mother. He looked very uneasy. She wished that she could have gone to him, to tell him not to be nervous. The King followed her gaze.

“You will always take care of him, will you not, Mary?” he said very seriously.

“Always, Papa.”

“He will need your care, my dear, and I know I can trust you to give it to him. The saints bless you and keep you.”

“I am happy to be the Dauphine, Papa, but I hope I shall never be Queen of France, for I could not be that while you live—so I would wish never to be.”

“My dear child,” he said, “I love you very much.”

By four o’clock in the afternoon the ball at the episcopal palace was over, but the celebrations were to continue. The whole company crossed the Seine to the Palais de Justice. Mary was carried in a litter of gold and silver, and the people shouted to her as she passed. “Long live the Queen-Dauphine!” they cried. And to each other: “But she is beautiful. What a contrast to the Italian woman!” Catherine did not seem to care what they said of her. She accepted humiliations from the Parisians as she did from her husband, with a resigned and almost patient smile.

How the people cheered the King when he rode by on his magnificently caparisoned warhorse! But the loudest cheers of all, some noticed, were for the man dressed in frosted cloth of gold, ablaze with gems, the man of action whom no amount of fine clothes or jewels could disguise. They knew him at once; his tall figure attracted immediate attention as did the scar on his cheek. “Vive le Balafré! Long life to the great Duke of Guise!” shouted the crowds. He knew how to win the hearts of the people. They did not forget that, during the celebrations when the mob had struggled to see the youthful pair but were prevented from doing so by the fine folk on the dais, he had ordered those fine folk to stand aside that the people’s view might not be obstructed. “God bless the Duke! God bless the hero of Metz and the saviour of Calais!”

And so the procession of litters, coaches and prancing horses came to the great hall of the Palais de Justice where a grand supper was waiting, to be followed by such a ball, such masques and mummeries, games and pastimes as were rarely seen even at the Court of France. With relish Mary ate of the dishes which were set before her. This was the happiest day of her life, she told François. He smiled and said that he was happy to be her husband but he would be happier still when they could be alone together.

He laughed with Mary at the children who, led by young Henri de Guise, rode in on hobby horses; each horse—and there were twenty-five of them—was pulled across the hall by a lackey, but the horses were so beautifully decorated with trappings of cloth of gold and silver that they looked more beautiful than real horses. The Princes, looking very charming in their suits of cloth of gold, came to a halt before the bridal pair and sang in praise of marriage and this royal marriage in particular.

Only the Scottish guests were ill at ease. It was clear that they thought the laughter, the dancing, the lavish display of jewels, the fulsome compliments and the soft looks exchanged between the men and women a strange mode of behavior. They were unable to join in the gaiety and stood apart about Lord James, as though to be ready to protect themselves if the need arose, watching the strange antics of the French through sullen and suspicious eyes.

The peak of the evening was reached with the appearance of the galleons which glided over the floor of the ballroom, the silver gauze sails filled by an artificial breeze; and as the floor cloth had been painted to represent waves, the effect had a certain realism. Lackeys led the ships to the table at which the royal ladies sat, and in the first of these ships the King was disclosed seated on the deck in a chair of state beside which was an empty chair. The King reached for Mary’s hand and helped her onto the deck that she might sit beside him. In the next ship was the Dauphin who had been warned he must select his mother to sit beside him; the Prince of Condé, in the next, chose the Duchess of Guise; the Duke of Lorraine followed and chose the Princess Claude; the King of Navarre chose his own wife; and the ships went gracefully down the ballroom over the painted floor cloth to the delight of all who saw them, and the immense pride of the Duke of Guise who had organized the pageantry.

Later Mary and François sat side by side listening to the poems of Ronsard and du Bellay; and all those poems—some set to music—were in praise of the King of France and the newly married pair and of the joy this nion of the two countries would bring to them.

“Mary,” whispered François wearily, “will it never end?”

She pressed his hand and looked down into his pale face. Poor little ridegroom! He was so tired. He was longing for it to be over, but the bride as wishing it could last for the rest of her life.

THEY LAY TOGETHER in the marriage bed divested of their glittering wedding garments.

François was holding her hand tightly. “I should be so afraid, Mary, if it were anyone but you.”

“So should I,” said Mary, “if it were anyone but you.”

The Dauphin laughed happily. Mary knew just how to set him at ease. If he was nervous, so was she. How lucky he was to have her for his wife!

“I shall grow stronger, Mary,” he said. “I’ll be like the Duke, your uncle. I will have all Paris shouting for me, and a scar on my cheek. I’ll be like my father, quiet and strong. Oh, Mary, how lucky you are! You don’t have to be like anybody but yourself.”

“Nor do you, François,” she said.

“Mary, I love you so.”

“I love you too, François.”

“Whatever we have to do … it will be all right, won’t it?”

“Yes, François. But don’t worry. Go to sleep now.”

She could see that he was almost asleep. His lids were pressing down over his eyes. He nestled closer to her and she held him in her arms protectively.

“I am so glad, Mary,” he murmured, “so glad to be married to you.”

Then he fell asleep.

FOUR

THE KING HAD DECREED THAT THE HONEYMOON SHOULD be spent in the lovely old château, built by his father François Premier, at Villers-Cotterets. So to this château went François and Mary, accompanied by only a few of their attendants, that they might enjoy each other’s company in quiet seclusion.

These were the happiest weeks of Francois’s life. The days seemed long and full of sunshine. He would lie on the grassy lawns near the fountains and listen to Mary’s reading to him; she read so beautifully. Sometimes she composed verses about their happiness; sometimes they rode in the forest together. It was quite different, riding almost alone with Mary, from riding with the company which always surrounded him when he was at Court. They would walk their horses under the trees or gallop side by side over the grassy stretches.

At Villers-Cotterets he learned not to be afraid of horses. Mary showed him what loving, gentle creatures they were. They were like herself, she said, eager to serve him.

What enchanting things Mary said! And how happy he was in her company! She made him forget that he was a sickly boy; she made him feel that he was a man.

To his relief their marriage had not been consummated. He was glad of that. He felt unhappy when he remembered that it would have to be one day; he was so uncertain and he sensed that Mary was also, and that she was glad that everything would be as it had been before their marriage, except that she was Dauphine now and they could be together night and day.

How good it was to be away from everybody who alarmed him! His mother was at Les Tournelles with the Court, and that seemed far away. There was another whom he was beginning to fear as much as his mother, another who seemed to be constantly watching him in a manner that was sinister and subtle. This was Mary’s uncle, the Cardinal of Lorraine.

Those sunny days were marred slightly because Mary was not feeling well. She had pains and a cough. In her childhood she had been a healthy girl but later certain weaknesses had begun to show themselves. She had a good appetite—perhaps too good, for she was sometimes ill after eating; and she was subject to fainting fits.

Then came a visitor to the honeymoon château. When the Dauphin saw who it was he froze with a horror for which he could really find no reason; but Mary ran forward eagerly to greet her uncle.

The Cardinal embraced both children.

“It is a secret visit,” he said. “I could not resist it. I wished to see how my dear children were enjoying their honeymoon. And when I heard that my dearest Mary was unwell, I found the desire to make the journey irresistible.” The Cardinal looked at her anxiously. Her skin was of waxy pallor like the petal of the magnolia blossom; it was attractive, thought the Cardinal, but not a sign of robust health. As he had said to his brother, the Duke, when he had heard of Mary’s illness, it was a terrifying thought that the power of their house depended on the lives of two frail children.

He told his brother that he had had a secret conference with the Dauphin’s doctors and had forced them to admit that the likelihood of the boy’s reaching the age of twenty was very remote.

Mary’s illness and the reports from the doctors were the reasons for the Cardinals intrusion on their honeymoon.

He knew the Dauphin and he knew Mary. The Dauphin was a frightened boy; he was so weak and sickly that he would have no normal impulses. As for Mary, one day she would be a passionate woman. The Cardinal was fully aware of that. He thought it was the secret of that immense attraction which was felt by almost every man who came into contact with her. Her expression was gentle; hers was a tender beauty; yet her dormant sensuality was ready to be roused, and it was this readiness which made all men who set eyes on her, long—subconsciously perhaps—to be that one who should kindle the fire. Her reserve, upheld by her great dignity, was like a fine gauze covering the intensely passionate nature. If the gauze could be removed the true Mary would be exposed—eager, voluptuous, abandoned. Passion would sweep away her dignity. The woman in her would make her forget she was a queen. This connoisseur of human frailty, this man who had experienced every sensation, understood Mary completely.

It was his task to keep the gauze intact. Only he had lifted the corner to peep beneath, and then dropped it quickly. He was too old and wise to let his emotions stand in the way of his ambition. Mary must be handled with the greatest care. She must never know herself as a woman, if there was any risk that such knowledge might come between her and her duty to the house of Guise. He had fancied that Henri de Montmorency might, in due course, have stripped Mary of her queenly dignity, of her innocence and her ignorance, and found the woman beneath. That was why he had—as he so well knew how to do—made the Montmorency repulsive to her.

That had not been difficult. He had formed Mary’s mind; he had watched over her. His relationship with her had been his great delight. It gave him more satisfaction than any of those obviously erotic entertainments which he devised from time to time. Mary must remain his guileless niece. Yet it was necessary for her to taste the fruit of the tree of knowledge, for it was imperative to the house of Guise that the Dauphin and Mary should have an heir. Yet he himself, when he had been determined that she should not fall to the house of Montmorency, that great enemy of the house of Guise, had shown her how bitter that fruit could be. He had made her turn shuddering away; that was why the task which now lay before him was such a delicate one.

He listened in an avuncular manner to Mary’s account of the pleasures of the château. He heard about Francois’s prowess with his new horse. Then he patted Mary’s cheek and said that it grieved him to see her not as well as when they had last been together. He wished her to rest and insisted on her lying down.

“Not now you have come!” she protested.

“Because I have come! I will not have this hearty husband of yours tiring you.”

François could not help feeling rather pleased to be referred to as the vigorous one. Mary saw his quick smile which was replaced immediately by his look of concern for Mary.

Mary said: “We did ride rather far yesterday. It was a little too far… for me.”

“Then you shall rest now, and François shall take me to the stables and show me his horses.”

Mary agreed. She was pleased because on other occasions when her uncle had been present, François had sent out distress signals begging not to be left alone with the imposing Cardinal. It was pleasant to feel that François was less afraid since their marriage, and that he was beginning to be fond of Uncle Charles.

When Mary had left them, the Cardinal smiled at the boy. His smile was warm, and affectionately and successfully masked the contempt he felt for the stripling.

“You… you would wish to see the stables?” said the Dauphin timorously.

“Why, yes… yes,” said the Cardinal. “We will go alone.”

As he admired the horses he made himself so agreeable that François began to think he had been rather foolish to be afraid; but when they had left the stables and were walking on the grounds about the château, the Cardinal said: “I trust you are being a good husband to Mary.”

“I love her,” said the Dauphin. “I would die for her.”

“She will need you to do more than die for her.”

“I … I would do all that she wished.”

“Poor Mary, she is a little sad.”

“Oh, no. She is happy. She says so. She says that this is the happiest time she has ever known. She is happy because of our marriage.”

“She was happy thinking of marrying you. I am not sure that she is happy now.”

“I … I do not understand.”

The Cardinal smiled. “You have given Mary a fine title; you have made her Dauphine of France. But there is more to a marriage than that. What Mary needs is a lover. She needs a child.”

The Dauphin flushed scarlet and did not know where to look. He was near to tears. He knew that he had been right to fear the Cardinal who had brought discord into this Eden.

The Cardinals long mouth sneered. “Tell me,” he said, “I am right, am I not, when I say that Mary has been disappointed in her lover?”

“Mary does not want…”

“Mary does not want! Of course she wants!”

“But she said…”

“Holy Virgin, have you been such a laggard in love as to ask her what she wants in the matter?” The Cardinal laughed aloud. “Your grandfather, great François, would rise in his grave and come to you with a horsewhip if he knew. You have betrayed the honor of France and the Valois.”

“But if we wish … if we do not want…”

“Poor Mary! So I now understand why she is sick. She is pining. Holy Mother of God! Holy saints! Listen to the boy. He is a poor impotent weakling who begs his wife not to make any demands on his manhood. My boy, all France will reject you. Are you a Frenchman then? Are you the heir of France? Now I know why Mary is sad. Now I know why she pines and droops. She was promised marriage, and she has been given… what? I know not. I dare not think. My poor niece! My poor, poor niece!”

“How… how… dare you!” stammered François. “Remember you speak to the Dauphin.”

“Remember it! I would to God I could forget it. I would I did not belong to this land, the heir of which is a lily-livered timorous girl, masquerading as a man.”

“I … I will tell the King.”

“I beg of you, do not. Do not bring down sorrow on his silver hairs. Do not bring shame to his royal crown. Do not let him know that he has fathered an unnatural monster with whom the most beautiful girl in all France has been unfortunate enough to marry.”

“You have come here to torment me then!”

The Cardinal seized the boys arm. His face was a mask of piety as he raised his eyes to the sky. “No, my son. I have come here to see that you do your duty, not only to my niece but to your ancestors.”

The Dauphins face quivered. “I… I…”

The Cardinal released him and laid an arm about his shoulders. “My dear boy,” he said gently, “my beloved Dauphin, I have been harsh. Sometimes one must be cruel to be kind. I wish to help you. I know how young you are and that you have not had the good health of some of your companions. You have not roamed the countryside with them and partaken in their manly sports and pastimes. My dearest boy, believe me, I wish to help you. I am your confessor, your priest. It is my place to help you. This marriage must be consummated without delay. It is your duty.” He laughed gently. “Ah, that from which you shrink will give you great joy. Do you remember when you first mounted a horse? You were afraid then. The ground seemed so far away. You were terrified that you would fall. In your heart you hoped that you would never have to ride again. But now you are glad you learned to ride. So it will be in this matter. If you are frightened, if you run away from your duty, you will be ashamed for the rest of your life. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” said the Dauphin.

The Cardinal pressed his shoulder warmly. “I knew that you would. You will grow strong and noble. You will be a man, a worthy successor to your father.”

They returned to the palace.

“Do not mention to Mary what I have said,” warned the Cardinal. “That would be folly. It would not please her to know that it had been necessary to force her husband to his duty.”

The Dauphins face was set and determined. He was no longer the happy bridegroom. A duty lay before him, the execution of which frightened him.

The Cardinal saw his niece before he left. He did not intend to stay. He never made the mistake of overemphasis. If, when the honeymoon was over, the marriage had not been consummated, he would have to consider other methods. What he had done so far would suffice and was, he felt sure, almost certain to succeed.

It had been the wish of the King that the young people should be left entirely to themselves. The King was sentimental where children were concerned, and he remembered the trials of his own early marriage. As for the Queen, she had no wish for the marriage to be consummated, but the Cardinal believed that her wishes were not founded on sentiment.

The consummation of the marriage was vital to the house of Guise; therefore that consummation should take place.

“And it shall!” mused the Cardinal, as he rode away from Villers-Cotterets. “I have injected some manhood into that ungainly mass of corrupting flesh which calls itself Dauphin of France. I am only sorry that my darling should have been given such an unworthy partner in her first excursion into the delights of the flesh.”

THE KING came down to Villers-Cotterets. He had heard that Mary had been ill and that the Dauphin was less happy than he had been on his arrival.

The King came without ceremony, riding there on a hunting expedition.

The young couple were delighted to see him. He scanned their faces eagerly. He was moved as he gazed at them; they were such children, and did he not know what it meant to be a young husband? He remembered even now with a shudder his first weeks of marriage.

“And how are you both, my dear children?” he asked as he embraced them.

“We are very happy, Papa,” they assured him.

Mary was pale; that would be explained by her malady, but the Dauphin seemed shamefaced. They did not tell the King that their happiness had lasted until they had been compelled to indulge in a nightly duty which was distasteful to them both. Henri did not ask. He remembered his own agonies when his witty father had made brilliant remarks to his young son.

They will grow out of it, he promised himself. They are so fond of each other. François turns to her for everything, and she is as ready to comfort him and humor him as she ever was.

Yet so concerned was the King that he decided he would separate the newly married pair for a few weeks and see what effect it had.

“François,” he said, “I wish you to join the camp at Amiens. Honeymoons cannot last forever, you know.”

“No, Papa.”

The King saw the fear leap into the boy’s eyes. He dreaded leaving Mary and Villers-Cotterets for the camp where there would be rough soldiers.

“You will be able to show your skill on horseback,” said his father. “And, my boy, remember you are the Dauphin. Your people will wish to see you. Do not be afraid of them. There is nothing to fear. Remember, one day you will be their King.”

So to the camp at Amiens went François. Mary stayed at Villers-Cotterets, which the King felt would be healthier for her than Paris. He sent her four Marys to her to compensate her for the loss of her husband. He fancied that, while she was sorry to say a brief farewell to François, she was, in a way, relieved. The King believed he understood.

THERE WAS a great deal of excitement in the Court because the Queen of England was dead. Her place had been taken—usurped, said the King, the Guises and almost every Frenchman—by the bastard daughter of the concubine Anne Boleyn; and if the throne of England had not been taken by the bastard Elizabeth, it would surely have fallen to Mary, Queen of Scotland, now Dauphine of France.

“Holy Mother of God!” cried the Duke, his eye watering above his scar. “We’ll take men-at-arms across the sea. By God, we’ll turn the redheaded bastard off the throne.”

But the King was against war. The memory of Saint Quentin rankled. It was no easy task to take men and arms across the Channel. He was all for making peace now with his Imperial enemies. He wished to see the return of Anne de Montmorency, the Constable whom he loved and revered. Even now he was seeking peace and would make no fresh wars.

“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.”

“It does not content me,” mumbled Charles.

The only way in which she could treat such an outburst was not to look upon it seriously. She smiled and left him, but her heart was beating furiously.

THE CARDINAL came to see her and asked to speak with her alone.

“My dearest niece,” he said, “you are looking pale. Perhaps there is a reason?”

“I was not very well yesterday, Uncle.”

The Cardinal could not hide his frown. “I had hoped there might be another reason.”

“What reason?” asked Mary.

“It is time a child was conceived.”

She blushed and the Cardinal said anxiously: “My child, I trust you do your duty.”

“Oh… yes.”

“It is imperative that you have a child. François knows that, does he not? You know it?”

“We both know it.”

“I wish the Dauphin had the manhood of some others. My poor sweet Mary, would to God …”

She waited, but he sighed deeply.

He went on after a pause: “One day you will understand how much I love you. There must be a child, Mary. There must. If François died and there was no child, what would be your position here in France, do you think?”

“I do not know.”

“Dearest, try to remember your duty as I have taught it. This is a matter which concerns not only yourself but our entire house. The family looks to you. Oh, my Mary, I know that that which should be a pleasure to you is a painful duty. I read your mind and you can hide nothing from me. I see it through your eyes… the shameful fumblings… the inadequate lover. Oh, that you might enjoy one worthy of you! Oh that you might be now, in this glory of your youth, the woman I see behind those gentle eyes. Ah, what pleasure, what transcendant joy for the one who would be fortunate enough to be your lover! Mary, there must be a child. Somehow, there must be a child.”

She trembled. She was frightened by the meaning she read in his words, by the realization that the world was so different from what it had at first seemed to be.

HENRI DE MONTMORENCY danced with her in the stately pavanne.

He complained: “I have little chance of speaking to you.”

She thought how handsome he was, how elegant. She understood now what his burning glances meant. She feared she had been very ignorant before. Life was not easy and simple and Henri de Montmorency did not cease to desire her because she was the wife of the Dauphin.

“I must tell you this,” he said. “I love you still.”

He was bold. He came from a bold family.

“Take care, Monsieur de Montmorency,” she said. “There are many of your enemies who watch you.”

“Dearest lady, it is you who should take care, for you have more enemies than I could ever have.”

“Enemies? I?”

“At the Court of France many are in love with you. I mean you yourself. But some are deep in hate for the Dauphine of France.”

“I do not know of these.”

“The Queen of England hates you. She will never forgive you. I have had news from England.”

“What have I done to her?”

“What they have made you do. You have questioned her right. You have established your belief in her bastardy and you have called yourself Queen of England. Others did this, I know, but it is you whom she will blame for it.”

Mary tossed her head. “She is far away and cannot reach me here. Ah, Monsieur de Montmorency, what do I care for the woman who calls herself the Queen of England? Talk of other things, I beg of you.”

“Your wish is a command. I will say that you grow more beautiful every day and that when I see you I am overwhelmed with love for you.”

“I did not mean that you should change the subject to speak to me thus,” said Mary, but she spoke in such a way as to imply that she did not forbid it. What harm was there in listening to such pleasant compliments from such an elegant young man!

DURING THE WEEKS which followed, Mary refused to think of the unpleasant. It was exciting to be the Dauphine and enjoy greater power than ever before. She had sent Madame de Paroy from her household, and Catherine had made no attempt to send the woman back to her. Catherine paid greater respect to Mary now, for she was conscious of rank; but Mary did not like her any better.

Now Mary had her own little court—her friends among that little circle in which she and François were as Queen and King. She and François rarely left each other, for he depended on her more than ever. The Cardinal and the Duke of Guise were often in their company; her uncles asked Mary to arrange that this was so, for as they said, François was in truth their nephew now. François admired the Duke but he could not overcome his fear of the Cardinal.

The young pair hunted together, and at such times Mary was always watchful that her husband did not tire himself; and when the Dauphin was not with her she was conscious of a relaxation of responsibility, which brought with it some relief. She loved François but she was very happy without him; then she would listen attentively to the compliments which were poured into her ears; and would dance and laugh more gaily than anyone. And, she was more attractive than ever. The Cardinal, watching her, knew that one day some gallant adventurer would seek to discover the true Mary; then he might find the passionate woman who lived within the Queen.

What could that mean for Mary? Lifelong happiness? That was hardly likely, she being a queen. Lifelong tragedy perhaps, for the, as yet, undiscovered Mary was a woman who would count the world well lost for love.

The Cardinal delighted to watch his puppet; he felt he had made of her a fascinating work of art. But the game of politics must be played with care, and the Cardinal’s chief interest was the power which would come to him through the advancement of his house.

The Guises were anxiously watching events. They had succeeded in marrying Mary to the Dauphin, but now the King and Diane were showing their displeasure with the Guise arrogance which had by no means diminished since the royal marriage.

The King wished to make peace with Spain. The Duke of Guise was against peace. There were long, angry discussions between the two, during which the King had to remind François de Guise that the marriage of his niece to the Dauphin did not mean that the Duke was ruler of France.

Henri was angry. Diane had been right when she had pointed out that the Guises were becoming intolerable. It was time the Constable de Montmorency, who had helped to keep the balance of power, was back in France. A peace treaty would mean the return of prisoners and among them Montmorency; thus the power of the Guises could be curtailed. The Duke, so great in war, was less useful in peace. Henri was tired of war, tired of the arrogance of the Guises. He therefore consented to make the Treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis with Philip of Spain.

The Duke ranted: “By this treaty, by a single stroke of the pen, all the Italian conquests of thirty years are surrendered, except the little marquisate of Saluzzo. Sire, shall we throw away Bress, Bugey, Savoy… Piedmont… all these and others? Shall we restore Valenza to Spain, Corsica to Genoa, Monteferrato to—”

“You need not proceed,” said the King coldly. “We need peace. We must have peace. You would have us go on until we exhaust ourselves in war. It is not the good of France which concerns you, Monsieur, but the glory of Guise and Lorraine.”

“Guise and Lorraine are France, Sire,” declared the bold Duke. “And Frances shame is their shame.”

The King turned abruptly away. It was time that reliable old ally and enemy of the Guises the Constable de Montmorency was back at Court.

There were other good things to come to France through this treaty. When it was signed, Philip of Spain and Henri of France would stand together against the heretic world. They could make plans for the alliance of their two countries; and such plans would contain, as they invariably did, contracts for royal marriages.

THERE CAME that never-to-be-forgotten day in June. There was no one, in that vast crowd which had gathered in the Rue St. Antoine near Les Tournelles where the arena had been set up for the tournament, who would ever forget it. It was a day which, by a mere chance, changed the lives of many people and the fate of a country.

The pale-faced Princess Elisabeth was there—a sixteen-year-old bride who had not yet seen the husband she was shortly to join, and whom she had married by proxy a few days earlier. The great Philip of Spain, she had been told, did not come for his brides; he sent for them. So the Duke of Alva had stood proxy for Philip, and the ceremony which had made her Philip’s wife had taken place. She was grateful for the haughty pride of Spanish kings which allowed her this small grace.

It was a frightened bride who watched the great events of that summer’s day.

Princess Marguerite, the King’s sister, was present. She was to marry the Duke of Savoy—which marriage had also been arranged with the signing of the treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis. The Duke of Savoy was present on this fateful day with his gentlemen brilliant in their red satin doublets, crimson shoes and cloaks of gold-embroidered black velvet, for this tournament was to be held in his honor.

All the nobility of France had come to pay respect to the future husband of the Princess Marguerite and the Spanish envoys of Elisabeth’s husband.

The Dauphin and the Dauphine came to the arena together in a carriage which bore the English coat of arms, and as they rode through the crowds, the heralds cried: “Make place! Make place for the Queen of England!”

The Constable de Montmorency was back in France, and Henri, his son, had married Mademoiselle de Bouillon, the granddaughter of Diane de Poitiers.

Did Mary care? She was a little piqued. He had sworn he would be bold; he had sworn that he would never marry, since he could not marry Mary.

Mary laughed. It was all a game of make-believe. She had been foolish to take anyone seriously.

Queen Catherine took her place in the royal gallery at the arena. Her face was not quite as expressionless as usual, for during the preceding night she had had uneasy dreams, and although the sun was shining in the Rue St. Antoine and the crowd was loyal, she was conscious of a deep depression.

The jousting began and the noble Princes excelled themselves. Mary was proud to watch the skill of her uncle the Duke of Guise and to hear the people’s warm acclamation of their hero.

The Duke of Alva, stern representative of his master, sat beside Elisabeth and applauded. The Count of Nassau, William of Orange, who had accompanied Alva, took part in the jousting.

There came that moment when the King himself rode out—a brilliant figure in his armor, his spurs jeweled, his magnificent white horse rearing—to meet his opponent. The people roared their loyal greeting to their King.

How magnificently Henri acquitted himself that day! His horse—a gift from the bridegroom-to-be, the Duke of Savoy—carried him to victory.

The King had acquitted himself with honor. The people had roared their approval. But he would go in once more. He would break one more lance.

The Dukes of Ferrara and Nemours were trying to dissuade him but he felt like a young man again. He had turned to the box in which sat Diane. Diane lifted her hand. The Queen half rose in her seat. But the King had turned away. He had signed to the Seigneur de l’Orges, a young captain of the Scottish Guards. The Captain hesitated, and then the King was calling for a new lance.

There was wild cheering as the King rode out a second time and began to tilt with the young Captain.

It was all over in less than a minute. The Captain had touched the King on the gorget; the Captains lance was splintered and the King was slipping from his horse, his face covered with blood.

There was a hushed silence that seemed to last a long time; and then people were running to where the King lay swooning on the grass.

THE KING WAS DYING. He had spoken little since he had fallen in the joust. He had merely insisted that the Captain was not to be blamed in any way because a splinter from his lance had brought about the accident. He had obeyed the King and had tilted when he had no wish to do so; he had carried himself like a brave knight and valiant man-at-arms. The King would have all remember that.

In the nurseries there was unusual quiet, broken only by sudden outbreaks of weeping.

Little Hercule cried: “When will my Papa be well? I want my Papa.”

The others comforted him, but they could not comfort themselves. Margot, whose grief, like all her emotions, was violent, shut herself into her apartment and made herself ill with weeping.

Mary and Elisabeth, François and Charles sat together, but they dared not speak for fear of breaking down. Mary noticed an odd speculative look in Charles’s eyes as he watched his brother. A King was dying, and when one King died another immediately took his place. The pale sickly boy would soon be King of France, but for how long?

Edouard Alexandre—Henri—was with his mother. She needed all the comfort he could give her. As she embraced him she told herself that he would take the place in her heart of the dying man. She was sure that the King was dying, because she knew such things.

And at last came the summons to his bedside. He was past speech and they were all thankful that he was past his agonies; he lay still and could not recognize any of them. They waited there, standing about his bedside until he ceased to breathe.

In a room adjoining the bedchamber all the leading men of France were gathering. The Cardinal was there with his brother, the Duke, and they both noticed that the glances which came their way were more respectful than they had ever been before, and that they themselves were addressed as though they were kings.

When it was all over, the family left the bedside—François first, apprehensively conscious, through his grief, of his new importance. Catherine and Mary were side by side, but when they reached the door, Catherine paused, laid a hand on Mary’s shoulder and pushed her gently forward.

That was a significant gesture. Queen Catherine was now only the Queen-Mother; Mary Stuart took first place as Queen of France.

FIVE

THE QUEEN OF FRANCE! THE FIRST LADY IN THE LAND! SHE was second only to the King, and the King was her devoted slave. Yet when she remembered that this had come about through the death of the man whom she had come to regard as her beloved father, she felt that she would gladly relinquish all her new honors to have him back.

François was full of sorrow. He had gained nothing but his father’s responsibilities, and dearly he had loved that father. So many eyes watched him now. He was under continual and critical survey. Terrifying people surrounded him and, although he was King of France, he felt powerless to escape from them. Those two men who called themselves his affectionate uncles held him in their grip. It seemed to him that they were always present. He dreamed of them, and in particular he dreamed of the Cardinal; he had nightmares in which the Cardinal figured, his voice sneering: “Lily-livered timorous girl… masquerading as a man!” Those scornful words haunted him by day and night.

There was one other whom he feared even more. This was his mother. If he were alone at any time she would come with all speed to his apartments and talk with him quietly and earnestly. “My dearest son… my little King… you will need your mother now.” That was the theme of all she said to him.

He felt that he was no better than a bone over which ban dogs were fighting.

His mother had been quick to act. Even during her period of mourning she had managed to shut out those two men. She had said: “The King is my son. He is not a King yet; he is merely a boy who is grieving for his father. I will allow no one to come near him. Who but his mother could comfort him now?”

But her comfort disturbed him more than his grief, and he would agree to anything if only she would go away and leave him alone to weep for his father. Mary could supply all the comfort he needed, and Mary alone.

Mary’s uncles came to the Louvre. They did not ask for an audience with the Queen of France; there could be no ceremonies at such a time, said the Cardinal, between those who were so near and dear. He did not kneel to Mary; he took her in his arms. The gesture indicated not only affection, but mastery.

“My dearest,” he murmured, “so it has come. It has come upon us unexpectedly. So my darling is Queen of France. That is what I and your uncles and your grandmother have always wished for you.”

Mary said with the faintest reproof: “We are as yet mourning the dead King.”

The Cardinal looked sharply at her. Had the great honor gone to her head? Was she, as Queen of France, less inclined to listen to her uncle than she had been as Dauphine?

He would not allow that.

“You will need your family more than ever, Mary.”

“Yes, Uncle, I know. I have often thought of being Queen, and now I think much of the King and how kind he always was and how dearly we children loved him. But he was not kind to everybody. Terrible things happened to those who were not of the true faith, and at his command.”

“Heretics could not be tolerated in this country,” said the Cardinal.

“But, Uncle, I am a good Catholic, yet I feel that it is wrong to torture people … to kill them because they wish to follow a different line of thought. Now that I am Queen I should like to promise everyone religious liberty. I should like to go to the prisons where people are held because of their religious opinions, open the doors and say: ‘Go in peace. Live in peace and worship God in the way you wish.’”

The Cardinal laughed. “Who has been talking to you, my dearest? This is not a matter of religious thought—” He remembered his robes suddenly and added, “Only. Why, these men who lie in prison care little for opinions. They wish to set the Protestant Bourbons on the throne. Religion and politics, Mary, are married to one another. A man meets his death on the Place de Grève, perhaps because he is a heretic, perhaps because he is a menace to a Catholic monarch. The world is divided into Catholics and Huguenots. But you shall learn more about these things. For the time being you will, I am sure, with your usual good sense take the advice of your uncle François and your uncle Charles who think of nothing but your good.”

“It is a comfort to know that you are with me.”

He kissed her hand. “We will make the throne safe for you, dearest, and the first thing we must do is to remove all those who threaten us. Where is François? Take me to him. He must send for the Constable de Montmorency at once. The old man’s day is over. There you will see disappear the greatest of our enemies; and the other…” He laughed. “I think we may trust the Queen-Mother to deal adequately with Madame de Valentinois.”

“The Constable! Diane!” cried Mary. “But—”

“Oh, Diane was charming to you, was she not? You were her dear daughter. Do not be deceived, my dearest. You were her dear daughter because you were to marry the Dauphin, and it was necessary for all the Kings children to be her dear children. She is an enemy of our house.”

“But she is your sister by marriage.”

“Yes, yes, and we do not forget it. But she has had her day. She is sixty and her power has been stripped away from her. When the splinter entered the King’s eye she became of no importance—no more importance than one of your little Marys.”

“But does not love count for something?”

“She did not love you, child. She loved the crown which would one day be yours. You have to grow up, Mary. You have to learn a great deal in a short time. Do not mourn for the fall of Madame de Valentinois. She had her day; she may well be left to that Queen whom she has robbed of dignity and power for so many years.” He smiled briskly. “Now, tell the King that you wish to see him.”

She went to the apartment where François sat in lonely state.

He was glad to see Mary, but wished she had come alone; and particularly he wished that she had not brought the Cardinal with her.

He tried to look as a king should look; he tried to behave as his father had. But how could he? In the presence of this man he could only feel that he was a lily-livered girl masquerading as a king.

“Your Majesty is gracious to receive me,” said the Cardinal, and as he took the King’s hand, noticed that it was trembling.

“My uncle the Cardinal has something to say to you, dearest,” Mary announced.

“Mary,” said François, “stay here. Do not go.”

She smiled at him reassuringly. The Cardinal, signing to them to sit on their chairs of state, stood before them.

“Your Majesty well knows that your enemies abound,” he said. “Your position has changed suddenly and you will forgive me, Sire, if I remind you that you are as yet very young.”

The King moved uneasily in his chair. His eyes sought Mary’s and sent out distress signals.

“There is one,” continued the Cardinal, “whom it will be necessary for Your Majesty to remove from his sphere of influence without delay. I do not need to tell you that I refer to Anne de Montmorency, at present the Constable of France.”

“The… the Constable…,” stammered François, thinking of the old man who alarmed him only slightly less than the sardonic Cardinal himself.

“He is too old for his office, and Your Majesty’s first duty will be to summon him to your presence. Now this is what you will say to him—it is quite simple and it will make the position clear. ‘We are anxious to solace your old age which is no longer fit to endure the toil and hardship of service.’ That is all. He will give up the Seals, and Mary is of the opinion that they should be given to the two men whom you know you can trust. Mary has suggested her uncles, the Duke of Guise and myself.”

“But…,” murmured François, “the Constable!”

“He is an old man. He is not trustworthy, Sire. He has been in the hands of your enemies, a prisoner after Saint Quentin. What plight would France be in now had not my brother hurried to the scene of that disaster? As all France knows, François de Guise saved Your Majesty’s crown and your country from defeat. Mary, your beloved Queen, agrees with me. She wishes to help you in all things. She wishes to spare you some of the immense load of responsibility. That is so, is it not, Mary?”

The caressing hand was pressed warmly on her shoulder. She felt her will merge in his. He was right, of course. He was her beloved uncle who had been her guide and counselor, her spiritual lover, ever since she came to France.

“Yes, François,” she agreed, “I want to help you. It is too big a load for you, because you are not old and experienced. I long to help you, and so does my uncle. He is wise and knows what is best.”

“But, Mary, the Constable? And there is my mother—”

“Your mother, Sire, is wrapped up in her grief. She is a widow mourning her husband. You can understand what that means. She must not be troubled with these matters of state. As yet she could not give her mind to them.”

“You must do as my uncle says, François,” insisted Mary. “He knows. He is wise and you must do as he says.”

François nodded. It must be right; Mary said so; and, in any case, he wished to please Mary whatever happened. He hoped he would remember what to say.

“‘We are anxious to solace your old age…’”

He repeated the words until he was sure he knew them by heart.

MARY KNEW that the carefree days were over. Sometimes, at night, she and François would lie in each other’s arms and talk of their fears.

“I feel as though I am a ball, thrown this way and that,” whispered the King. “All these people who profess to love me do not love me at all. Mary, I am afraid of the Cardinal.”

Mary was loyal, but she too, during the last weeks, had been conscious of a fear of the Cardinal. Yet she would not admit this. She had been too long in his care, too constantly assured of his love and devotion.

“It is because he is so clever,” she said quickly. “His one thought is to serve you and make everything right for us both.”

“Mary, sometimes I think they all hate each other—your uncles, my mother, the King of Navarre…. I think they all are waiting to tear me into pieces and that none of them loves me. I am nothing but a symbol.”

“The Cardinal and the Duke love us both. They love me because I am their niece and you because you are their nephew.”

“They love us because we are King and Queen,” asserted the King soberly. “My mother loves me because I am the King; she loves Charles because, if I die, he will be King; she loves Elisabeth because she is Queen of Spain. Claude she loves scarcely at all, because she is only the wife of the Duke of Lorraine. Margot and Hercule she does not love as yet. They are like wine set aside to mature. Perhaps they may be very good when their time comes, and perhaps no good at all. She will wait until she knows which, before she decides whether or not she loves them.”

“She loves your brother Henri very much,” Mary reminded him. “Yet he could not be King unless you and Charles both die and leave no sons behind you.”

“Everybody—even my mother—must do something sometimes without a reason. So she loves my brother Henri. Mary, how I wish we could go back to Villers-Cotterets and live quietly there. How I wish my father had never died and that we were not King and Queen. Is that a strange wish? So many would give everything they have in order to wear the crown, and I… who have it, would give away all I have—except you—if, by so doing, I could bring my father back.”

“It is your grief, François, that makes you say that. Papa’s death was too sudden.”

“It would be the same if I had known for years that he was going to die. Mary, we are but children, and King and Queen of France. Perhaps if my father had lived another ten or twenty years we should have been wiser… perhaps then we should not have been so frightened. Then I should have snapped my fingers at the Cardinal. I should have said: ‘I wish to greet my uncle, the King of Navarre, as befits his rank. I will take no orders from you, Monsieur le Cardinal. Have a care, sir, or you may find yourself spending the rest of your days in an oubliette in the Conciergerie!’ Oh, Mary, how easy it is to say it now. But when I think of saying it to him face-to-face I tremble. I wish he were not your uncle, Mary. I wish you did not love him so.”

“I wish I did not.” The words had escaped her before she realized she was saying them.

There were items of news which seeped through to her. The persecutions of the Huguenots had not ceased with the death of Henri, but rather had increased. The Cardinal had sworn to the Dukes of Alva and Savoy on the death of Henri that he would purge France of Protestants, not because the religious controversy was of such great importance to him but because he wished to be sure of the support of Philip of Spain for the house of Guise against that of Bourbon. He was eager now to show Philip that he would honor his vow.

This persecution could not be kept from the young King and Queen. The Huguenots were in revolt; there was perpetual murmuring throughout the Court. Never had the prisons been so full. The Cardinal was determined to show the King of Spain that never would that monarch find such allies in France as the Guises.

There was something else which Mary had begun to discover. This uncle who had been so dear to her, who had excited her with his strange affection, who had taught her her duty, who had molded her to his will, was hated—not only by her husband, but by many of the people beyond the Court.

Anagrams were made on the name of Charles de Lorraine throughout the country as well as in the Court. “Hardi larron se cèle,” was murmured by daring men as the Cardinal passed. “Renard lasche le roi!” cried the people in the streets.

Prophecies were rife. “He will not live long, this Cardinal of Lorraine,” said the people. “One day he will tread that path down which he has sent so many.”

Great men, Mary might have told herself, often face great dangers. Yet she could not fail to know that beneath those scarlet robes was a padded suit, a precaution against an assassins dagger or bullet. Moreover the Cardinal had, in a panic, ordered that cloaks should no longer be “worn wide,” and that the big boots in which daggers could be concealed should be considerably reduced so that they could accommodate nothing but the owners feet. Every time Mary noticed the new fashions she was reminded that they had been dictated by a man who dispensed death generously to others while he greatly feared it for himself. It was said that the Guises went in fear of their lives but, while the Duke snapped his fingers at his enemies, the Cardinal was terrified of his.

He is a coward, decided Mary with a shock.

The fabric of romance which she had built up as a child in Scotland and which had been strengthened by her first years in France was beginning to split.

She was vaguely aware of this as she held the boy King tightly in her arms. They were together—two children, the two most important children in France, and they were two desolate lonely ones. On either side of them stood those powerful Princes, the Guises and the Bourbons; and the Valois, represented by Catherine the Queen-Mother, Mary feared more than either Guise or Bourbon.

THE COURT was moving south on its journey toward the borders of France and Spain. With it went the little bride of Philip of Spain, making her last journey through her native land. At each stage of the journey she seemed to grow a little more fearful, a little more wan. Mary, to whom she confided her fears, suffered with her in her deep sympathy.

Francois’s health had taken a turn for the worse. Abscesses had begun to form inside his ear, and as soon as one was dispersed another would appear. Ambrose Paré, who was considered the cleverest doctor in the world, was kept in close attendance.

Mary herself suffered periodic fits of illness, but they passed and left her well again. Her radiant health was gone, but if her beauty had become more fragile it was as pronounced as ever. There was still in her that which the Cardinal had called “promise”; there was still the hint of a passionate depth yet to be plumbed, and this was more appealing than the most radiant beauty, it seemed, for in spite of her impaired health, Mary continued to be the most attractive lady of the Court.

They had traveled down to Chenonceaux, that most beautiful of all French châteaux, built in a valley and seeming to float on the water, protected by alder trees. The river flowing beneath it—for it was built on a bridge—acted as a defensive moat. It had always been a beautiful castle, but Diane had loved it and had employed all the foremost artists in France to add to its beauty. Henri had given it to her although Catherine had greatly desired it; and the Queen-Mother had never forgiven this slight. One of her first acts, on the death of her husband, was to demand the return of Chenonceaux. In exchange, she had been delighted to offer Diane the Château de Chaumont, which Catherine considered to have a spell on it, for she swore that she herself had experienced nothing but bad luck there, and while living in it had been beset by evil visions.

As the royal party—complete with beds and furnishings, fine clothes and all the trappings of state—rode toward Chenonceaux, the Queen-Mother talked to the Queen of the improvements she intended for the château. She would have a new wing, and there should be two galleries—one on either side, so that when she gave a ball the flambeaux would illuminate the dancers from both sides of the ballroom. She would send to her native Italy for statues, for there were no artists in the world to compare with the Italians, as old King François had known; the walls should be hung with the finest tapestries in the world and decorated with the most beautiful of carved marble.

“You are fortunate,” said Mary, “to find something to do which will help you to forget your grief for the late King.”

Catherine sighed deeply. “Ah yes, indeed. I lost that which was more dear to me than all else. Yet I have much left, for I am a mother, and my children’s welfare gives me much to think of.”

“As does this beautiful château, so recently in the possession of Madame de Valentinois.”

“Yes… yes. We must all have our lighter moments, must we not? I hope that Chenonceaux will offer rich entertainments to my son and Your Majesty.”

“You are so thoughtful, Madame.”

“And,” went on the Queen-Mother, “to your children.”

“We are very grateful indeed.”

“I am concerned for my son. Since his marriage he has become weaker. I fear he grows too quickly.” The Queen-Mother leaned from her horse and touched Mary’s hand. She gave her ribald laugh. “I trust you do not tire him.”

“I… tire him!”

Catherine nodded. “He is such a young husband,” she said.

Mary flushed. There was in this woman, as in the Cardinal, the power to create unpleasant pictures. The relationship which she and François knew to be expected of them, and which the Cardinal had made quite clear to them was their duty to pursue, gave them both cause for embarrassment. For neither of them was there pleasure. They could never banish thoughts of the Cardinal and Queen-Mother on such occasions. It seemed to them both that those two were present—the Cardinal watching them, shaking his head with dissatisfaction at their efforts, the Queen-Mother overcome with mirth at their clumsy methods. Such thoughts were no inducement to passion.

“He is so weak now,” said Catherine, “that I am convinced that even if you did find yourself enceinte, no one would believe the child was the King’s.”

Again that laugh. It was unbearable.

They came to Chenonceaux, and Mary’s anger with Catherine had not left her when her women were dressing her for the banquet that night.

She looked at her reflection in the beautiful mirror of Venetian glass—the first which had ever been brought to France—and she saw how brilliant were her long, beautiful eyes. There was always some meaning behind the words of the Queen-Mother. Mary guessed that, for all her laughter, she was very much afraid that Mary was with child. Mary was beginning to understand why. If she had a child and François died, Catherine’s son, Charles, would not be King; and Catherine was longing for the moment when Charles should mount the throne. François had once said: “My mother loves me because I am the King; she loves Charles because, if I die, he will be King.” But although François was King he was ruled by Mary’s uncles, and Catherine wished to reign supreme. That was why she had appointed special tutors for her son Charles. It would seem, thought Mary, in sudden horror, that she wants François to die.

She looked round the beautiful room which was her bedchamber. Perhaps here King Henri and Diane had spent their nights, making love in the carved oak bedstead with its hangings of scarlet satin damask. She glanced at the carved cabinets, the state chair, the stools; and she was suddenly glad that she had not Catherine’s gift for seeing into the future. She was afraid of the future.

“Bring me my gown,” she said to Mary Beaton, who, with Seton, helped her into it. It was of blue velvet and satin decorated with pearls.

“A dress indeed for a Queen,” said Flem, her eyes adoring. “Dearest Majesty, you look more beautiful than ever.”

“But Your Majesty also looks angry,” countered Beaton. “Was it the Queen-Mother?”

“She makes me angry,” admitted Mary. “How like her to come to this château! She says that Chaumont is full of ghosts. I wonder the ghost of the dead King does not come and haunt her here.”

“It is very soon after…,” murmured Livy.

“She’s inhuman!” cried Mary.

One of her pages announced that the Cardinal was come to see her. The ladies left her.

As he kissed her hand, the Cardinal’s eyes gleamed. “Most beautiful!” he declared. “Everyone who sees you must fall in love with you!”

Mary smiled. Her image looked back at her from the Venetian mirror. There was an unusual flush in her cheeks and her eyes still sparkled from the anger Catherine had aroused. She enjoyed being beautiful; she reveled in the flattery and compliments which came her way. Tonight she would dance more gaily than she ever had before, and so banish from her mind the unpleasantness engendered by the Queen-Mother. François had been advised to rest in his bed. It was wrong of her to feel relieved because of this; but nevertheless it was comforting to remember she need not be anxious because he might be getting tired. Tonight she could be young and carefree. She was, after all, only seventeen; and she was born to be gay.

“Those who have always been in love with you,” went on the Cardinal, “find themselves deeper and deeper under your spell. But tell me, is there any news?”

She frowned slightly. “News? What news?”

“The news which all those who love you anxiously wait to hear. Is there any sign of a child?”

Now she was reminded of that which she preferred to forget—François, the lover who could not inspire her with any passion, François, who apologized and explained that it was but their duty. She saw the pictures in her mind reflected in the Cardinal’s eyes. She saw the faint sneer on his lips, which was for François.

“There is no sign of a child,” she said coolly.

“Mary, there must be; there must be soon.”

She looked at the sparkling rings on her delicate fingers and said: “How can you speak to me thus? If God does not wish to bless our union, what can I do about it?”

“You were made to be fruitful,” he said passionately. “François, never!”

“Then how could we get a child?”

His eyes had narrowed. He was trying to make her understand thoughts which were too dangerous to be put into words.

“There must be a child,” he repeated fiercely. “If the King dies, what will your position be?”

“The King is not dead, and if he does die, I shall be his sorrowing widow who was always his faithful wife.”

The Cardinal said no more; he turned away and began to pace the room.

“I am a very happy wife,” said Mary softly. “I have a devoted husband whom I love with all my heart.”

“You will hold Court alone tonight?” said the Cardinal, stopping in his walk to look at her. “You will dance. The most handsome men in the Court will compete for the honor of dancing with you. I’ll warrant Henri de Montmorency will be victorious. Such a gallant young man! I fear his marriage is not a very happy one. Yet doubtless he will find many to comfort him, if comfort he needs.”

He looked into his niece’s eyes and watched the slow flush rise from her neck to her brow. She would not look at the pictures which he was holding before her; she would not let him have possession of her mind. She feared him, almost as much as François feared him, and she was longing now to break away from him.

“Let us go now,” she said. “I will call my women.”

There was a satisfied smile about his lips as he left her. But she would not think of him. She was determined to enjoy the evening. She went to see François before going down to the banqueting hall. He lay on his bed, his eyes adoring her, telling her that she looked more beautiful than ever. He was glad that he could rest quietly in his bed, yet he wished that she could be with him.

She kissed him tenderly and left him.

Down to the great hall she went with her ladies about her.

“The Queen!”

All the great company parted for her and fell to their knees as she passed them.

The Cardinal watched her speculatively. If she were in love, he thought, she would know no restraint; then she would turn from a husband who, if not impotent, was next door to it. Then there would be a child. It would be almost certain with one as passionate as Mary would become. It would not be the first time that a King believed the child of another man to be his.

His eyes met those of the Queen-Mother. She composed her features. Ah, thought the Cardinal, you were a little too late that time, Madame le Serpent. You are desperately afraid that she is already with child. That would spoil your plans, Madame. We know that you are waiting for your son François to die, so that your little puppet Charles, his Mothers boy, shall take the throne, and you, Madame, shall enjoy that position behind it which is now mine and my brothers. But he must not die yet. Everything must be done to prevent such a calamity. He must not die until he has fathered Mary’s child.

Mary sat at the head of the banqueting table and her eyes glistened as she surveyed the delicacies set before her. The Queen-Mother, in her place at the great table, for the moment forgot her anxiety as to the condition of her daughter-in-law. She relished her food even more than did the little Queen. Fish delicacies, meat delicacies, all the arts known to the masters of cookery were there to be enjoyed. They both ate as though ravenous, and the company about them did likewise.

But when the meal was over and Mary rose, she was beset by such pains that she was forced to grip the table for support; the lovely face beneath the headdress of pearls was waxy pale. Mary Beaton ran to her side to catch her before she fell fainting to the floor.

There was consternation, although all were aware of the attacks which now and then overcame the Queen.

The Cardinal was alert. He had never seen Mary swoon before, although he knew that the pains she suffered, particularly after a meal, were often acute. Could it be that she was mistaken when she had said there was not to be a child? He saw the color deepen in his brothers face and the eye above the scar begin to water excessively. Could Mary be unaware of her state? Was it the quickening of the child which had made her faint?

In such a moment the brothers could not hide their elation. The Queen-Mother intercepted their triumphant glances. She also was too moved to mask her feelings. This could be as much her tragedy as the Guise brothers’ triumph.

She quickly pushed her way to the fainting girl.

Mary Beaton said: “I will get Her Majesty’s aqua composite at once, Madame. It never fails to revive her.”

The Queen-Mother knelt down by the Queen and looked searchingly into her face. Mary, slowly opening her eyes, gave a little cry of horror at finding the face of Catherine de Médicis so close to her own.

“All is well, all is well,” said Catherine. “Your Majesty fainted. Have you the aqua? It is the best thing.”

The Queen-Mother herself held the cup to the Queens lips.

“I am better now,” declared Mary. “The pain was so sharp. I … I am afraid it was too much for me.”

They helped her to her feet and she groped for the arm of Mary Beaton.

“I will retire to my apartments,” she said. “I beg of you all, continue with your dancing and games. I shall feel happier if you do.”

The Cardinal stepped forward, but Mary said firmly: “No, my dear Cardinal. I command you to remain. You too, Madame. Come, Beaton, give me your arm. My Marys will conduct me to my chamber and help me to bed.”

They who had crowded all about her drew back and dropped to their knees as, with her four faithful women, she went from the banqueting chamber.

She lay on the oaken bedstead, the scarlet damask curtains drawn about it. The pain had subsided but it had left her exhausted. She would sleep until morning and then rise refreshed from her bed.

She was awakened by a movement at her bedside. She knew that it was not late for she could hear the music from the ballroom. She opened her eyes and, turning, saw the Queen-Mother standing by her bed.

Mary felt suddenly cold with apprehension. “Madame!” she cried, raising herself.

“I did not mean to disturb Your Majesty,” said Catherine. “I came to see if you were at rest.” She laid a hand on Mary’s forehead. “You have a touch of fever, I fear.”

“It is good of you to disturb yourself, Madame, but I know that it will pass. These attacks always do. They are painful while they last, but when they are gone I feel quite well.”

“You have no sickness? You must tell me. Your health is of the utmost importance to me. You know that I have some knowledge of cures. Monsieur Paré will tell you that I come near to being a rival of his. You must let me care for you.”

“I thank you, Madame, but I do not need your care. Where are my women?”

“You must not blame them for letting me come to you. They understand my concern, and they dared not refuse my entry. Although now I have taken a step backward, they remember that, only a little while ago, I stood in your exalted position.” She laughed her loud laugh. “I still have some authority in the Court, my dear daughter.”

Catherine’s long delicate fingers were feeling Mary’s body—the small, not yet fully developed breasts, she was thinking, were not the breasts of an expectant mother.

Mary sprang up indignantly. “Madame, you concern yourself too much. I am well. I need only rest.”

“I will send Your Majesty a potion. Drink it and I’ll warrant you’ll feel better in the morning.”

“Madame, I feel better relying on my own remedies. But it is good of you to take such care of me.”

The Queen blew with her lips—a habit of hers. “And you my own daughter, the wife of my son? Naturally you are my concern. I think continually of your health. I will bring the potion to you at once.”

“Then I pray you leave it with Beaton or one of my women. I will sleep now and do not wish to be disturbed.”

“It will do you so much good that—as your mother—I shall insist on your taking it at once.”

Catherine went out smiling, and Mary lay still, her heart beating wildly.

It was not long before she heard a commotion in the apartment.

Beaton’s voice: “But, Madame, the Queen gave express orders—” Catherine’s voice: “Out of the way, my good woman. I myself will see that the Queen takes this dose.”

Mary kept her eyes tightly shut as the curtains were parted and Beaton with Catherine stood at her bedside.

“Her Majesty needs to sleep,” said Beaton in a high-pitched whisper which betrayed her fear.

Mary could picture the scene: Queen Catherine standing there with the goblet in her hand. Poor Beaton terrified, remembering all the rumors she had heard concerning the Italian woman.

What is in the goblet? wondered Mary. She hates me. She hates François. She wants François to die so that Charles will be the King. Could it be that she wishes to poison me, as some say she poisoned her husband’s brother? How would that serve her? No! It is not/whom she wishes to kill; it is the child she thinks is within me. That goblet will contain nothing deadly enough to kill me. There will be just enough poison to put an end to the life of an unborn child.

Beaton said, with great presence of mind: “I dare not disturb Her Majesty. That was her command.”

There was a pause before the Queen-Mother spoke. “I will leave this draught beside her bed. See that she takes it as soon as she wakes. It will ease her of her pains more quickly than anything the doctors can give her.”

“Yes, Madame.”

There was silence. Then Mary heard the sound of footsteps passing across the floor, and the shutting of a door.

When all was quiet she sat up in bed. “Beaton,” she whispered. “Beaton, are you there?”

Beaton came hurrying to her bedside.

“I was awake,” said Mary. “I heard all that was said.”

“Do not drink of it,” said Beaton. “I beg of Your Majesty not to drink.”

“Assuredly I shall not drink. Take it and throw it away… quickly, lest she comes back.”

Beaton was only too glad to do so. She returned in a few seconds with the empty goblet.

Beaton—strong practical Beaton—suddenly stepped forward and threw herself into the Queens arms. She did not speak, but tremors passed through her body.

THEY HAD SAID good-bye to Elisabeth. The parting saddened Mary. It was a sobering thought that her dear little playmate was lost to her, perhaps forever. There would be letters, but how could letters make up for that almost constant companionship which they had enjoyed over so many years?

There was bad news from Scotland where John Knox was demanding that Scotland seek freedom from the “Roman Harlot” as he called the Catholic Faith. Elizabeth of England was supporting him and appeared to have forgiven him for writing his “First Blast of the Trumpet against the Monstrous Regiment of Women.” Lord James Stuart was fretting for the Regency and Elizabeth was encouraging him. William Maitland of Lethington stood firmly with Lord James. The Duke of Châtelherault, with his unbalanced son Arran, was not far behind. They were fighting to establish Protestantism and drive Catholicism from the land.

The French sent aid, but it was not enough. All through the winter months came urgent appeals from the Queen Dowager of Scotland.

Mary was beginning to understand something of these matters; they could not be kept from her so easily now. Her thoughts were often with her mother whom she had not seen for nine years, although many letters had been exchanged between them. Mary smiled now to remember how hers had been full of trivialities.

One day she became more uneasy than ever. This was when Seton came to her and told her—when they were alone together—that she had seen a meeting between the King of Navarre and the English ambassador; and as the King of Navarre had evidently thought it advisable to go to the rendezvous heavily disguised, it would seem as though some intrigue was afoot between these two.

“But the King of Navarre is our own cousin,” said Mary. “He could not be involved in plots against us.”

“He is involved in plots against your uncles mayhap,” said Seton. “So many are… since they came to power.”

Mary shivered. “There is nothing but intrigue all about us. Seton, what will happen if the English take my Scottish crown from me?”

“Your Majesty will still be Queen of France.”

Mary thought of the sickly boy who was her husband. She thought of Catherine, standing by her bedside with the goblet in her hands.

For how long would she be Queen of France? she wondered. And then what would happen to her?

MARY WAS SITTING on the stone balcony which overlooked the courtyard of the Castle of Amboise. François was beside her and around them were ranged all the notable people of the Court, including the royal children.

It was March and the day was bright and cold. Mary sat shivering, though not because of the weather. These were the most terrible moments through which she had ever lived. She did not believe that she could endure much more. Francois’s face had turned a sickly green. The younger children were staring before them at the spectacle presented to them, with something like astonishment; they could not believe that it could really be happening. The Duchesse de Guise, wife of Uncle François, was fainting in her chair, her face the color of the balcony stone. She was in danger of falling but none dared go to her; they were afraid of the fury of the Duke.

Mary thought: I can no longer bear this. I cannot look on such things.

Who could be unmoved by such cruelty? The Queen-Mother could. She seemed to be watching with a calm interest. The Cardinal was also unmoved. There was a slight lifting of his lip which implied that he was gratified by the knowledge that those martyrs, who were being slaughtered and tortured before the eyes of the royal household, were not only learning but showing others what happened to those who opposed the House of Guise.

Mary’s eyes went involuntarily to the gibbet from which hung the limp figure of the Sieur de la Renaudie. The body swayed slightly in the March breeze; oddly enough it seemed to mock all the sightseers on the balcony; it seemed to be jeering at them. He was dead, he seemed to imply as he swayed indifferently, and nothing further could be done to hurt him.

François took Mary’s hand and pressed it. She turned her sorrowing eyes to his; silently they pleaded with him to stop this cruelty. But who were they to stop it? Each day they realized more and more that they were powerless. They bore proud titles; the people bowed and called them King and Queen; that was the extent of their power. When Mary was told: “You are Queen of England!” she had no alternative but to allow herself to be called Queen of England. When the followers of the Sieur de la Renaudie were brought up from the dungeons of Amboise and slaughtered before the eyes of the women and children of the royal household in the King’s name, the King had no power to forbid such brutality.

It had been explained to them. These rebels had planned to kidnap the King and Queen and members of the royal family, to banish the Guises and, if the King refused to become a Protestant, to set up a new King on the throne. But if the Guises had enemies, they also had friends. The plot had been concocted with the aid of the English, but English Catholics had heard of it and warned the Duke of Guise, with the result that it had been foiled and many prisoners had been taken.

“And not a single conspirator shall be spared,” declared the Duke. “They shall all be brought up from their dungeons. This will be a lesson to traitors.”

Heads, recently severed from living bodies, made ugly the beautiful battlements of the castle. The stench of blood was everywhere. Some of the rebels had been tied in sacks and thrown into the river. The beautiful Loire was stained with blood. There was blood everywhere… the sight, the smell of blood.

And the royal House of France—even young Margot and Hercule among them—must look on at the slaying of tortured men. They must watch slow and cruel death being meted out.

The Duchesse de Guise had struggled to her feet. She turned and ran from the balcony. Her husband, her brother-in-law and her son watched her with contempt.

Mary said: “François… François … I too must go. These sights will haunt me forever.”

“They will not permit it, Mary,” whispered François. “The Duchesse may go, but not the King and Queen.”

“It must be stopped. François, you must stop it. I cannot bear it.”

The Duke was looking at her coldly, the Cardinal in astonishment.

“Your Majesty should resume your seat,” said the Cardinal. “Your Majesty sets a bad example to others present.”

The Duke cried: “My wife and now my niece! By the saints, this is a sad day for Guise and Lorraine.”

The Queen-Mother came forward and laid a hand on Mary’s shoulder. She looked at the Guises with understanding. She had been flirting with the Protestant cause and was anxious to show the powerful brothers—since they were at the moment in the ascendant—that she was with them.

“Your Majesty will never know how to reign if you do not learn how to administer justice,” she said.

François looked at his wife eagerly when she resumed her seat.

He took her hand and tried to soothe her. But she was sickened by the stench of blood. She would never think of Amboise after this, she was sure—dear, beloved Amboise from whose eminence she had looked down on the mingling streams of the Loire and the Amasse—without remembering this terrible day.

She knew, in that moment, that she was afraid not only of Catherine but of her uncles; never, until now, had she realized what an empty title she bore. Her dignity was touched; her anger grew. These terrible deeds were done in her name—hers and that of François. These poor men were crying for mercy to her and to François, and by sitting here, meekly looking on, she and François were registering their approval of the deeds which were done in their names.

She could not stop the slaughter; she knew that. But she would not sit quietly and see it done.

“I will not stay here, François,” she said firmly. “I will not.”

“Hush!” he soothed. “Hush, dearest! They will hear. We have to stay. They say so.”

“You are the King,” she murmured.

The color was glowing in her face now as she went on: “The King may remain if he wishes. The Queen shall not.”

She made to rise. Her uncle, the Cardinal, was beside her; she felt his hands forcing her into her seat.

“François,” she cried, “you are the King.”

And in that moment—for the first time in his life—François was the King.

He rose, and suddenly a new dignity came to him. He said: “Monsieur le Cardinal, I command you to take your hands from the Queen.”

There was silence on the balcony. In very astonishment the Cardinal had dropped his hands to his sides.

“You wish to go to your apartments?” said François to Mary.

His mother came forward. “My son,” she said, and there was the venom of the serpent in her cold eyes and her cold voice, “it is the duty of the King and Queen to see that justice is done. Remember you are the King.”

“I do remember, Madame,” said François. “And I would ask you to do so. You also, Cardinal. Come, Mary. You wish to retire. Then let us go.”

He took Mary’s hand and led her from the balcony. No one attempted to stop them. François, for one short moment, was indeed King of France.

FRANÇOIS’S GLORY was short-lived. He had not the courage to sustain his new role. He realized that he had succeeded merely because he had taken those clever enemies of his by surprise.

The Cardinal’s long mouth continued to sneer at him, continued to command. His mother was forever at his side. He was growing weaker. There was an abscess in his ear which caused him great pain, and Monsieur Paré could do little to ease it. Each day his strength seemed to wane.

He knew that the people did not love him and that they blamed him for the terrible things which were happening under the reign of the Guises.

Rumors concerning the young King spread throughout the country.

“The King suffers from a wasting disease,” was whispered. “It is terrible in its consequences and a miracle that he lives at all. He only does so by drinking the blood of freshly killed babies.”

Wherever the King rode, the people called their children to them in terror; they bolted and barred their doors in the villages through which he passed.

“When my father rode abroad,” said François sadly, “the people hurried out to greet him. It was the same with my grandfather. Yet they shrink from me; they run from me; they hate and fear me. My father—good man though he was—was responsible for the death of many; my grandfather too. Yet they loved these Kings and they run from me who have killed no one. Oh, Mary, life is so unfair. Why was I born like this? Why was I not born tall and strong like my father and my grandfather? Why cannot I be a king, since I am born a king … as they were? Why do I have to be the tool of the Cardinal? I hate the Cardinal. I hate him… hate him….”

The Cardinal had come into the room. He was smiling slyly, but Francois’s grief was too deep for him to care for the Cardinal’s contempt. He ran to the man, grasped his padded robes and shook him.

He cried: “I believe it is you they hate. I do not believe it is their King. They know I would not hurt them. It is you they hate… you… you! Why don’t you leave us alone? Why don’t you go away—then we shall know whom it is the people hate… you or me… you or me.” Francois’s voice rose to a shriek as he cried: “Renard lasche le roi!” Then he turned away and covered his face with his hands.

The Cardinal laughed. “Is this a raving lunatic?” he asked of Mary. “I had thought to parley with the King of France, and I am confronted by a madman.”

“He is not mad,” said Mary. “He has just awakened. He is no longer a boy to be led. He has discovered that he is the King.”

“These are wild words,” said the Cardinal sadly, “and foolish ones. I would not have expected to hear them from you.”

Mary thought of all the care he had given her, but she thought also of the love François had always had for her. She would never forget as long as she lived how, because she had been in distress on the balcony, he had forgotten his fear and in the face of all those whose displeasure he dreaded he had, for her sake, remembered he was a king.

François had begun to sob hysterically. He cried: “You are afraid… you are more afraid than I. You are afraid of an enemy’s dagger. That is why your clothes are padded. That is why the fashion of cloaks and boots must be changed. In the fashions we see signs of the Cardinal’s cowardice.”

“It would seem to me,” said the Cardinal, “that the King is deranged. Perhaps I should call the Queen-Mother. I thank God that there are others who could readily take his place should his mind become too deranged for him to wear the crown.”

Mary cried: “Should you call him deranged because he seeks to remind you that he is the King of France?”

The Cardinal looked at the sobbing boy. “There is the most cowardly heart that ever beat inside the body of a king,” he muttered.

“I beg of you, do not try him too far,” said Mary.

The Cardinal snapped his sparkling fingers to imply his contempt for the King.

Mary’s eyes flashed. “Do not be so sure that you are right, my uncle. I am not the foolish girl you seem to think me. I know what is happening here—and in Scotland. You, and my uncle, have set the English against me. You may well have lost me my Scottish crown.”

The Cardinal looked at her in horror. His face was stern as he said: “This I cannot endure. I have given my devotion to you. I have thought of nothing but your welfare since you came to France. I have cherished you. I have loved you more than any living person. And you talk to me like this! You break my heart.”

Mary looked at him in anguish. What had she said? It was true that he had loved her. No one had cherished her as he had. She, remembering those intimate moments which they had shared, could not bear to see his proud head bent.

“Uncle,” she said, “my dearest uncle …” She ran to him. His face relaxed. She was held in those arms; her body was crushed against the scarlet padded robes. His lips were on her forehead, on her cheek, on her mouth.

“So you love me then, beloved? You love me yet?”

“Dearest uncle, I shall never forget what you have done for me.”

He took her face in his hands. “Plans,” he said, “the best plans go wrong sometimes, Mary. What has happened in Scotland is a bitter blow, I grant you. But have no fear. Your uncle François is the most powerful man in France. He loves you. I love you. Together we will face the world for your sake.”

“I know.”

“It is what happened at Amboise, is it not, which has turned you from me? That shocked you, my dearest. But it was necessary. You ask yourself, How could we order such things to be done? How could we look on with apparent satisfaction? For this reason, Mary: Because these scoundrels were attempting to harm our beloved niece. We may be hard men; but we love the deeper for that.”

Now she was weeping. He was dominating her once more. Now he was, as he had said, her spiritual lover. Nothing could come between them—certainly not a diseased boy, even if he called himself the King.

All was well, thought the Cardinal. Let her comfort the crying boy now if she could.

Mary was his, and the King was hers; and that meant, of course, that the Duke and Cardinal, since they need fear no opposition from the King and Queen, could continue to rule France.

IN THE antechamber at Saint Germain a young Scots nobleman was waiting to see the Queen of France. He came with letters from the Queen-Regent of Scotland, and he had proved himself to be one of the few men about that Queen whom she believed she could trust.

He was twenty-five years of age. Tall and broad-shouldered, he gave an impression of enormous strength and vitality; his expression was one of cool unconcern; he was arrogant in the extreme, and many of the elegant Frenchmen who had looked askance at this man who had the appearance of a Norse warrior, had turned quickly away lest that indolent stare, which their faint mockery had aroused, might change to something still less pleasing. No man, looking into that granitelike face, sensing the power in those great arms and shoulders, would care to take the consequences of his anger single-handed.

He stood, legs apart, a man who would be noticed in any assembly, dominant, the over-powering vitality showing itself in the coarse springy hair, the bold flashing eyes, the entirely sensual mouth which suggested that he was a man of many adventures, sexual and warlike; and this impression was by no means a false one. He was as hardy as the granite hills of his native land; he was as wild as the Border from which he came. He was James Hepburn, who had been for the last four years—since the death of his father—the Earl of Bothwell.

As he waited he was wondering what good could come to him through this meeting with the Queen. He had heard a few days ago that her mother had died. She had long suffered from a dropsical complaint and her death was not unexpected. Now the girl who had not reached her eighteenth birthday was his Queen; he would offer her his faithful service, but in return he would expect rewards.

He had heard tales of her fascination but he was sceptical. He did not believe that one woman could be as perfect as she was represented to be. His lips curled a little. The beauty of queens was apt to be overrated. No Hepburn would join the ranks of their idolators. Queens were women and it was folly to forget that all-important fact. No Hepburn should. There was a story in the family that his ancestor, Adam Hepburn, had found the royal widow, Mary of Guelders, most accessible, and that Queen had become, so it had been recorded, “lecherous of her body” with the Hepburn. His own father, Patrick Hepburn—who had been called the Fair Earl and had had a way with women—had hoped to marry the Queen, Marie de Guise, and had even divorced his wife, James’s mother, to make the way clear. It was true that the royal widow had used his desires in that direction to suit her own purposes, but she had been the loser when, in his pique and anger against her, he had become friendly with the English.

To James Hepburn queens were women, and he had yet to meet the woman who had been able to show an indifference to him.

He would ask for some high office, for he was an ambitious man. He would never be like his father, whatever the provocation, for he hated the English and wished to serve Scotland and the Queen faithfully; but he wished to be rewarded for doing so.

He whistled the tune of a border song as he waited. He was glad to be in France. He had spent some of his youth here, for a certain amount of education at the Court of France was considered by the Scots nobility as a desirable part of a young man’s upbringing. Scotland was closely united with France and the French had the reputation of being the most cultured Court in the world. To France came young Scotsmen, and so to France some years ago had come James Hepburn.

He was particularly glad to be here at this time; not only because it was an important time politically, but in order to escape the tearful and too passionate devotion of Anna Throndsen. Anna was expecting their child; he had promised marriage, but he grew tired of women very quickly.

His upbringing had aggravated those characteristics which made him the man he was. He did not remember very much of his life before he was nine years old. That must have been because it was so easy and pleasant; his mother had had charge of him and his sister Janet, and the two of them had been tenderly cared for. They were perhaps wild by nature; they needed restraint, for the family traits were strongly marked in both of them. Their ancestors were lusty men, strong, wild and sensual.

It was unfortunate that, when James was nine years old, his father had secured a divorce from his mother. Ostensibly the grounds were consanguinity; actually they were brought because the Fair Earl wished to pay court to Mary of Guise.

The Countess of Bothwell was forced to leave her home and with it her two children. Gone was the restraining hand and the two—redheaded Janet and tawny James—ran wild.

As a boy of nine James saw terrible things. Henry the Eighth had declared war on Scotland and with typical ferocity had instructed his soldiers to put all to the fire and sword.

“Burn and subvert!” cried the tyrant. “Put all men and women to fire and sword without exception where any resistance should be shown to you. Spoil and set upside down, as the upper stone may be the nether, and not one stick stand by another, sparing no creature.”

The life of adventure had begun. James in his flight from one town to another, saw the soldiers of the English King carry out his orders. As a result the boy was filled with a passionate hatred toward the English, a hatred which burned within him and made him long to act as he saw their soldiers acting. Rape, torture and death were commonplace sights to him. They did not disgust; they were part of the adventurous way of life; he merely longed to turn the tables, and he swore he would one day.

He became a man at an early age. He was cynically aware of his father’s alliance with the enemy; he knew of his father’s fondness for women.

He spent a great part of his youth in the establishment of his great-uncle Patrick, Bishop of Aberdeen. The Bishop was a merry man, eager to educate his great-nephew in such a way as to bring credit to the name of Hepburn. He was a great drinker; food and drink, he declared, were the greatest pleasures in life, apart from one other. He would slap the boy on the back when he told him this. The one other? Did he not know? The Bishop put his hands on his knees and rocked with laughter. He would wager the boy— being a Hepburn—would soon know what he meant; if he did not, then, by all the saints, he could not be his fathers son.

In the Bishop’s Palace the young James would lie awake and listen to the nightly perambulations of his great-uncle’s friends. There were whisperings and laughter, little screams of pleasure. James thought he understood. Life at Crichton, his fathers home, had not been without these phenomena, but never had he known them conducted on the scale they were in the Bishop’s Palace of Spynie.

The Bishop was very fond of several comely serving women. He would chuck them under the chin or pinch various parts of their bodies as he passed them. Sometimes young James would be with him, but he did not abstain from his intimate greeting for the sake of the boy. Why should he? The boy was a Hepburn.

“A real Hepburn!” he would say; and if there was a woman at hand he would push the boy toward her and she, taking her cue, would caress him and say that he was indeed a lovely boy.

In the banqueting hall James would sometimes sit with the Bishop and his cronies, listening to their conversation which invariably concerned their amatory adventures.

The Bishops numerous children often came to visit him, and he was very fond of them all. There were so many Janets and so many Patricks that James could not remember them all. It was the Bishop’s delight to have them legitimized, several at a time.

James willingly took to the life at the Palace of Spynie. It was the life for him. He very soon began to swagger with the Bishop and his friends. He learned how to carry his liquor and boast of his adventures. The Bishop was delighted in his great-nephew. “A true Hepburn!” was his frequent comment.

In France, whither he had gone to complete his education, he found nothing that he had learned at Spynie a disadvantage. He never did and never would like what he thought of as the effeminate manners of the French. He would not abandon his Scottish accent; he would not ape anybody. He was himself and was determined to continue to be. Moreover he found that his methods were as effective as any. There was not a gallant in the Court of France who could boast of so many easy conquests as could James Hepburn, for all that he did not write pretty poems, nor dance and scent himself, nor wear jewels in his ears. His attractiveness lay in his dynamic personality, in that obvious virility. Not for him the graces; he would not attempt to woo. It was his way to take at a moment’s fancy, for that was the way to enjoy. Too long deliberation was fatal to pleasure; his passions came quickly and as quickly passed.

His most satisfying love affair had been with Janet Beaton, aunt to that Mary Beaton who was one of the Queen’s Marys. She had had three husbands and was nineteen years older than James, but a wonderful woman, tempering wisdom with passion, friendship with love. It was a very satisfying relationship to both of them. They had become “handfast,” which meant that they were betrothed and that the betrothal was binding. Handfasting involved no actual ceremony. The couple merely lived together and, if after a certain period, they wished to go through the ceremony of marriage, they were free to do so.

The difference in their ages was too great, James realized; Janet realized it also. Janet was the only reasonable woman he had encountered in his amatory life, for he tired so quickly, the women so slowly. Janet had said that though they ceased to be lovers, there was no reason why they should not remain friends. With Janet he had been as nearly in love as he could be.

It was a pity that Anna Throndsen was not so reasonable.

He had set out on an embassy for the Queen-Mother of Scotland. First he was to go to Denmark where he was to use his persuasive powers on King Frederick that he might lend his fleet to Scotland against the English; secondly he must visit the Court of France, taking letters to the Queen from her mother.

He had set off for Denmark with high hopes, and his sojourn there might have been very successful, for he had won Frederick’s promise of help; but with the death of the Queen, the political situation had changed. England was ready to discuss peace with France and Scotland, so that Frederick’s offer was no longer needed.

Meanwhile James’s personal affairs were giving him some anxiety.

Anna was not only attractive, she was clever; she had been outstanding among the women he had met in Denmark, not only because she was dark among so many who were fair-haired, but because she was a shrewd businesswoman. The eldest of seven daughters and having one younger brother, she was bold and ruled her parents. James was immediately attracted and they very quickly shared the same bed. Anna had ideas about marriage; she understood that James was a lover without much love, but with lust which came quickly and was quickly satisfied. But his virility was overpowering, and even Anna had succumbed and had felt the need to satisfy passion and make arrangements afterward.

She believed that she could use him in the future. James was less calculating. He had the Borderer’s instinct: a successful Lieutenant of the Border, it had been his custom to take his choice of the women prisoners, and the affair would be over and done with quickly; he gave it not another thought. He wished it could always be thus, but there were occasions, in a more regulated society than that of a town in the process of ravishment, when certain tiresome preliminaries were necessary.

Anna was attractive enough to occupy his attention for more than one night—or even two. She saw the ambitious man in her lover; she saw the Scots noble from impoverished estates, so she allowed the rumor to be put about that she was an heiress to no small fortune. James swallowed the bait and suggested marriage.

He had never met such a clever woman. In no time she was pregnant. They must be married. She was the daughter of an honorable Danish family.

He had discovered Anna’s fortune to be mythical; he had also discovered that his desire for her was on the wane; but he could not elude her altogether. When he was ready to leave Denmark (and at that time he had not heard of the death of the Queen-Mother of Scotland and was therefore a petitioner in a hospitable land) he must take her with him, her family said; and in view of the delicate political situation he could see no alternative.

So he and Anna left Copenhagen, but when they reached Flanders he reasoned with her.

“Should I arrive at the French Court with a mistress big with child?” he demanded. “We shall have those dandified ninnies laughing behind our backs.”

“You could arrive with the Countess of Bothwell whose condition is a delight to you,” said Anna quickly.

“A speedy marriage… and in a foreign land? Impossible!”

“With a man such as you are nothing is impossible.”

There was some truth in that, he thought, and, by God, I’ll not take you farther. Hard as it is to rid myself of your company, you are right when you say that with me nothing is impossible.

He was cunning; he had merely been caught by the unexpectedness of her tactics, for previously he had never been forced to plead with a woman; he had said: “Come hither!” and they came; he coolly walked off afterward, leaving them weeping and hoping for his return. He should have known Anna was no ordinary woman.

“The French,” he said contemptuously, “are sticklers for their etiquette. The Queen has been brought up as one of them. I have my future to consider.”

“I shall see to it,” said Anna demurely, “that it is our future.”

But Anna, as her pregnancy advanced, grew less truculent. She wished only to lie and rest half the day. The prospect of an uncomfortable journey across Flanders alarmed her, and she knew that he would not marry her until they reached Scotland and that it would be necessary to have their child legitimized after its birth. But she would know how to find him; he was too prominent a man to be able to lose himself.

So when he continued to urge that she should stay in Flanders while he went on alone to the French Court, she at length agreed.

Her farewell was tender, but it held a warning in it. James remembered that warning now. It was ominous. “Do not think I am a woman to be lightly taken up and then cast off. If you think that, James Hepburn, you do not know Anna Throndsen.”

This would be a lesson to him in future. But he had no great qualms. He was not one to brood on the future; he let that take care of itself. He had been in too many scrapes to worry about consequences; he had faced death so often that he was not to be alarmed by a persistent woman.

A page came to him and, bowing before him, asked if Lord Bothwell would be so good as to follow him.

He did so until the page threw open a door and announced: “My Lord, the Earl of Bothwell.”

He started forward expecting to see the young Queen of whom he had heard so much. Instead it was a red-clad figure, tall, dignified and imposing; and he recognized the Cardinal of Lorraine who, he had heard, with the help of his brother ruled France.

The two men took each other’s measure. The sensuality of each was his most outstanding characteristic, yet there could not have been two men more different. The Cardinal was the gourmet, Bothwell the gourmand. The Cardinal was subtle; Bothwell was direct. One was a man of physical inactivity, the other a man of action. The Cardinal pandered to his sensual appetites, using aphrodisiac means—mental and physical—to stimulate them; Bothwell needed no such stimulation. The Cardinal was a coward; Bothwell did not know the meaning of fear. They were two strong men, but their strength lay in different directions.

The Cardinal disliked the boldness of the coarse Borderer; Bothwell disdained the arrogance of the elegant gentleman. But they were each aware of the power possessed by the other. The Cardinal, by far the cleverer of the two, was able to hide his resentment the more easily.

“I had thought to see my Queen,” said Bothwell.

“Monsieur,” smiled the Cardinal, “you have come from Scotland where Court manners are slightly different. In France we await the pleasure of the Queen. We do not present ourselves unless commanded to do so.”

“I have letters from the Queens late mother. Doubtless she will be eager to receive them.”

“Doubtless. But as Queen of France she has much with which to occupy herself. I know you have come from Denmark where you did good work. I heard from my dear sister, before her unfortunate demise, that you were a worthy young man whom she delighted to honor with her trust. I therefore welcome you to the Court of France.”

“You are gracious, Monsieur le Cardinal, but it is my Queen I have come to see.”

“You have the letters from her mother?” The Cardinal extended his slim white hand.

“My instructions were to hand them to none but the Queen herself.”

“The Queen has no secrets from me.”

“So I have heard,” answered Bothwell. “But those were my instructions.”

The Cardinal sighed. “There is one matter I must discuss with you. The Queen does not know of her mothers death. I myself wish to break the news and break it gently. She has suffered from bad health lately and I fear the shock might prove too much for her.”

Bothwell’s lips were set in an obstinate line. He did not see why he should take orders from the Cardinal. He disliked taking orders. His policy with the late Queen had been a bold one. He was no Court intrigant and flatterer. Now that her mother was dead it was well for the Queen of Scots to know of the acute danger which such a situation threatened. He had come to warn her of just that; and now, this man, doubtless for reasons of his own, was forcing him to silence on a most important issue.

“I have had no instructions,” declared Bothwell, “to keep silent on this matter.”

“Until now… no,” agreed the Cardinal.

“My lord Cardinal, this is a matter which I must discuss with others of my countrymen. Lord Seton is here at Saint-Germain. I—”

“That gentleman has already received his instructions in the matter.”

“And the King of France?” said Bothwell with a trace of insolence. “These are his instructions?”

“The King, Monsieur, knows nothing of the tragedy. If he knew of it, he would be unable to prevent himself from imparting it to the Queen.”

“So then the King and Queen are kept in ignorance of certain facts which concern them!”

The Cardinal decided to smile at such insolence. He said: “The King and Queen are very young—little more than children. It is the express desire of her uncle, the Duke of Guise, and myself as well as the Queen-Mother of France, not to overtax them. We lighten their burdens as best we can. It is our considered opinion, in view of the Queen’s failing health, that she should not at present suffer the shock such news would give her. Therefore, my lord Bothwell, you will say nothing of her mother’s death. I myself will break the news to her when I consider she is fit to receive it.”

“You are not afraid that someone’s indiscretion may betray the news?”

“We know how to deal with indiscreet people, my lord. And all of us who love the Queen have no wish to do aught which would bring harm to her. Give me your assurance that you will say nothing of her mother’s death, and no obstacle shall be put in the way of your meeting the Queen.”

Bothwell hesitated, but only for a moment. He was sharp enough to see that this man could prevent his meeting with the Queen.

“I give my word,” he said.

The Cardinal was satisfied. There was that about the Scottish adventurer which implied that having given his word he would keep it.

JAMES HEPBURN, Earl of Bothwell, stood before the Queen of France and Scotland.

He had knelt and kissed her hand and had now been bidden to rise. He was acutely aware, among those about her, of the red-clad figure of the Cardinal.

So here was the Queen of Scotland! he pondered. This was the young woman of whom he had heard so much. This was the “skittering lass” the Hamiltons referred to. She was but a pale and delicate girl.

It was characteristic of James Hepburn that in those few seconds he had stripped her of her royalty and had seen her as a woman. He was aware of curling chestnut hair that gleamed red and gold in places, long—but not large—eyes, a gentle and smiling mouth, a skin that was pale and delicate, a carriage which suggested pride of race and great dignity. He thought her fair enough, but he had been expecting one more dazzling. He thought of Anna’s dark beauty; Mary Stuart’s was of a different kind.

That underlying, but as yet unawakened sensuality which was the secret cause—far more than her beauty—of Mary’s attractiveness, was beyond his perception. He was attracted by the obvious. He thought Mary unhealthy and the unhealthy did not please him. She was French, for all she called herself the Queen of Scots. Her dress and manners—everything about her—was French. She was a fragile and pretty creature—that was all as far as he could judge.

That she was his Queen was quite another matter.

“My Lord Bothwell,” she addressed him, “you have brought letters from my mother.”

He said this was so and that he was honored and delighted to have the opportunity of offering them to her.

He took them from the pocket of his doublet and gave them to her. Smiling, she took them. Then he saw her charm. A pretty wench, he thought, but, alas, not a bonny one.

The Cardinal was murmuring to the Queen: “I will relieve Your Majesty of these documents.” Mary handed them to him. “Later,” went on the Cardinal, “if it is Your Majesty’s pleasure, we will go through them together.”

“That is my pleasure,” said the Queen.

Bothwell’s lips tightened. He himself might just as well have handed the documents to the Cardinal. Did she never do anything unless this man allowed her to?

The Queen was smiling at Bothwell. “Pray sit down,” she said. “Here beside me. There is much I wish to hear of Scotland.”

He sat down. She threw a sidelong look at him. That virility alarmed while it fascinated. She was not sure whether she found it attractive or repulsive. With the Cardinal hovering beside her she believed she found it repulsive. She had heard of this Bothwell; he was the successful Lieutenant of the Border and would have been living a wild life. She pictured him, ravishing the towns across the Border, driving the cattle before him, herding the women… like cattle. She had heard of such things. He would be brutal, this man. He made her shiver.

“You have come by way of Denmark,” she said.

“Yes, Your Majesty. It was the wish of the Queen, your mother, that I should visit the Court of King Frederick to make requests of him.”

“She will doubtless have told me of these requests in the letters you bring.”

Bothwell was astounded. Did she know nothing? Was she left entirely in the dark? He had come to warn her of the state of her Scottish realm. He had come to warn her of the claims of Arran, the treachery she might expect from the Bastard, Lord James Stuart; he had come to warn her of the machinations of Elizabeth of England and her minister Cecil. There was an immediate need to appoint a new Regent. Yet she—a silly, simpering girl—seemed to know nothing of these matters. Could it be true that she gave no thought to anything but dancing prettily and writing and reading verses?

God help Scotland with such a queen! Bothwell thought with deep regret and affection of the valiant woman who had recently died after enduring continued hardship, fighting a desperate battle, not only against the English, but against her own rebel lords, while this girl, the real Queen, mimed and danced in French châteaux, making simpering Frenchmen fall in love with her!

Bothwell was about to speak, but the Cardinal forestalled him.

“Your Majesty, my lord Bothwell will be at Court for some time. You are tired now. Retire to your apartments and we will read these letters from your mother, the contents of which I am sure you will wish, above all things, to know, and most speedily. Promise Lord Bothwell that he shall have audience tomorrow. Then you will feel strong enough to hear his news.”

Mary hesitated. Then she said: “Lord Bothwell, please present yourself at this hour tomorrow.”

James bowed. “Your Majesty’s servant.”

The Queen rose and laid her hand on the arm of the Cardinal with whom she went from the chamber.

MARY WAS THINKING of Bothwell while the Cardinal broke the seals of her mothers letters and began to read them aloud to her.

He had made her uneasy. There was a certain insolence in his gaze. She could not complain; he had bowed low enough; he had kissed her hand in the appropriate manner; he had said the right words; but the eyes—that bold glance… how could she describe it? Insolent! It was not one of those passionate looks which she so often received and which she understood meant that the one who gave them longed to be her lover. This man was arrogant and cold and yet in a way he seemed to hint that he too imagined himself making love to her. It was too much to endure. Yet how could she complain?

She had not really known whether she wanted to remain with him or dismiss him. She had chosen to dismiss him because she felt he should know that it was for her to command. That was not entirely true. The Cardinal had intervened, had suggested she should retire because she was tired; and she had obeyed.

The Cardinal now saw that her attention wandered. He said: “What did you think of the messenger? Was he not a crude clown? It is a sad thing that your mother could not find one more worthy of the mission. But, by all accounts, he may be trusted, which is more than can be said for most of these Scotsmen. A rough fellow—but he did good work on the Border. Such works suits him better, I’ll vow, than playing ambassador. Murder and rape are his profession. We shall have to warn our ladies. We do not want him to offend them. We shall have to protect our serving girls. I hear he has a fondness for such.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” said Mary. “My mother says he is a faithful servant. I should not like her ambassador to make trouble here… even if it were only with serving girls.”

“I had him watched in Denmark and Flanders. He is in some trouble with a woman now. It is unfortunate. She is the daughter of a retired admiral—Christopher Throndsen, a man of some standing in Copenhagen. He promised the girl marriage, promptly seduced her, and now there is to be a child and he has left her to fend for herself in Flanders.”

“It is clear that he is a brute,” said Mary.

“He considers, I fancy, that he has behaved with decorum. Seduction is new to him; rape is his business.”

Mary shuddered. “Dearest uncle, do you mind if we speak of his affairs no more? I find them distasteful.”

The faintest satisfaction showed in the Cardinal’s face. All was well. The man disgusted her. Her womanhood still slumbered.

LORD BOTHWELL stretched his legs on the bed in the apartment which had been assigned to him. His page, whom he had engaged recently because the fellow’s cheeky manners appealed to him, and whom he called “French Paris” though his name was really Nicholas Hubert, knelt to take off his master’s boots.

“Have done!” growled Bothwell. “I shall be up again in a minute, and then you’d be obliged to put them on again.”

Paris grinned. He enjoyed serving this master. Both well’s love affairs were Paris’s constant delight, and his greatest pleasure was to have some hand in arranging them.

“And what thought my lord of the Queen of France?”

Bothwell was silent for a few seconds. Then he said: “It would seem to me that she’ll not be long for this world. But mayhap it’s this Court with its dancing and fancy ways. Mayhap our Scottish breezes would put her on the road to health.”

Paris had not wanted an opinion of the Queen’s health. She was, he had heard, the most desirable woman in the world. Surely his lord had noticed that?

“She’s a well-formed lass,” went on the Earl. “But she needs to be taken out of soft wrappings and to rough it as her mother did. She seemed to know nothing of the country she is supposed to rule, and cares, I’ll swear, as little. ’Tis as well for her that she’s Queen of France and not obliged to live in her own country. We should have to teach her one or two things if she did.”

Paris nodded. “There’s much your lordship could teach her, I doubt not.”

Bothwell was silent for a few moments before he said: “The Cardinal of Lorraine would seem to be King of this realm… with his brother thrown in. ‘Do this!’ ‘Do that!’ he says, and the Queen does it. ‘Don’t listen to this and don’t read that!’ And she smiles and lets him have his way.”

“He’s her uncle, my lord, but his reputation is the worst in the world.”

Bothwell leaped off his bed suddenly. “And how does hers stand?” he demanded. “I wonder! It would not surprise me if she were the Cardinal’s mistress.”

“My lord!”

“Where I come from we don’t mince our words. It would seem to me that she does all the Cardinal asks. And when it is a matter of asking anything of a woman, the Cardinal would not be backward in his demands—niece or no niece, queen or tavern girl. Moreover I have seen that between them which tempts me to believe it. It would not surprise me at all.”

“And does my lord relish the thought?”

“Our Queen the Cardinal’s loose woman to do his commands! What think you?”

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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“Who is this?” asked Mary.

“Young Henry Darnley, whose mother, Lennox’s wife, will have all the world know that as she was the daughter of Margaret Tudor, sister of Henry the Eighth of England, her son is not without some pretension to the throne of England… and of Scotland too. Madame Lennox presents her long lean son for your inspection. I dare swear she thinks that, once having clapped your eyes on him, you’ll find it hard to refuse him your bed, your crown, and all that is yours.”

“My dear uncles, I am pained by all this talk of marriage. It is too soon as yet. I have so recently been a wife, so short a time a widow.”

The Duke showed impatience, but the Cardinal laid his arm about her shoulders. “My dearest,” he murmured, “there should be no wedding for a reasonable time. But your affairs are of great moment… not only to us but to the whole world. Do you want to be treated continually as you have been treated since the death of François? Do not tell me! I know that Catherine has made you feel your position keenly. You are a queen and queenly. You would never be happy in a lowly state. You were meant to rule. Your proud carriage says so. Your dignity demands it. That is why we have two matches in mind for you—either would bring you great glory. The first is with the King of France.”

Mary cried in terror: “But Charles… Charles … he is not entirely sane. He … he frightens me.”

“Frightens you?” said the Duke. “A King of France frightens you!”

“A madman frightens me,” she retorted. “You talk of the children I might have… with a madman as their father!”

“Madness is no deterrent to fertility,” asserted the Duke.

“Mary,” soothed the Cardinal, “you would never shirk your duty… I know. You could be Queen of France again. You could stay in the land you love. There is no other Court—save one—worthy of you.”

“The Court of Spain!” put in the Duke triumphantly. “Don Carlos, son of great Philip, has need of a wife. We have approached the King of Spain and he is not averse to the match. He wishes to see Scotland firmly settled in the Catholic Faith. Think, Mary. One day the crown of Spain may be yours.”

“It is too soon,” pleaded Mary. “I beg of you… leave me now.”

The Cardinal put his arm about her and said softly: “The Queen of Spain… the mightiest throne in all Europe … a young husband who will adore you. You will be reuinted with your dear little friend Elisabeth who is now the Queen of Spain herself. Oh, Mary, some people are born for distinction. You are one of them.”

She closed her eyes. She felt so weary. A terrible depression had come over her. She wished to be alone that she might throw herself onto her bed and weep.

MARY COULD NOT help liking the youth who brought such kind messages from his mother. Henry Darnley was handsome. His large blue eyes and fair hair were almost feminine in their charm; and his manners were not without grace, though naturally seeming a little rough compared with those of the French courtiers.

Mary was sorry for his shyness and tried to make him feel at ease, to forget she was the Queen by reminding him that they were cousins.

“Your Majesty is gracious,” he told her.

When she asked him to play the lute for her—she had heard that he was a master of that instrument—he was glad to do so, and she listened with delight; he played quite charmingly.

He told her he wrote poetry also and he brought her some verses he had written for her. She was delighted with them. They made a poor showing against the polished artistry of Ronsard and his fellow poets but they had good feeling in them, as she told him.

He could dance well and was an enthusiastic follower of the chase. His conversation was of sport and pleasure.

When he left after his brief stay at Court, she was sorry to see him go, but in a day she had forgotten him.

WHEN THE COURT left for Fontainebleau Mary went with it. The Queen-Mother was coolly polite to her, but beneath the veneer of politeness there was an insolence. It was as though she knew some exciting secret which concerned Mary, and which she longed to impart. It must be unpleasant, thought Mary, otherwise it would not have pleased Catherine so much.

Whenever the King saw Mary he would gaze longingly at her. There were times when it appeared as though he would throw himself upon her, and yet always he seemed to be conscious of the invisible restraining hand. It was almost uncanny, but then the power of the Queen-Mother was uncanny.

She was thinking more and more about the journey to Spain. It was alarming to consider Don Carlos. Was he really as degenerate as rumor suggested? He was but a boy. There had been evil rumors concerning François, but how happy she had been with him!

There was one thing she dreaded more than all others: return to Scotland.

Her optimism, never long absent, returned to her during those difficult weeks. She would not return to Scotland. Everything could be easily arranged. Her brother, Lord James, longed for the Regency. Let him have it. It was his great desire to govern Scotland; it was her great desire to stay away from Scotland. She would face the truth. She loved to be gay, and the Scots looked on gaiety as a sin. There was no comfort in their castles; there were no merry dances, no versifying, no pleasant pastimes. Scotland was straining towards Puritanism and Mary Stuart could never be a Puritan.

Now that her uncles had retired from Court her new position was brought home to her afresh. At Fontainebleau the Earl of Bedford and the English ambassador, Sir Nicholas Throgmorton, called upon her; and there was no one to advise her how to deal with these gentlemen.

They surveyed her with solemn dignity. They were aloof and cool.

Inexperienced as she was, hurt and humiliated by Catherine, she allowed herself to show a haughtiness which was dictated by her hot temper rather than a considered diplomatic attitude. It had been all very well to flout the English when she was the wife of the King of France; now she stood alone; she was merely the Queen of a small country whose affairs were in disorder.

“The Queen of England,” Bedford began, “requires the immediate ratification of the Edinburgh treaty.”

She knew that the Edinburgh treaty claimed for Elizabeth the sole right to the throne of England and that Mary Stuart should recognize her as such “for all time coming.”

She was not pleased by the Englishmen’s arrogant attitude toward her. They implied that their Queens will should be Mary’s. She was bewildered, inexperienced in dealing with such situations alone, so she obeyed those inclinations dictated by her pride.

Her uncles and Henri of France had assured her that she was the rightful heir to England. At the moment she was in decline but she would not always be so. One day she might be Queen of Spain and then these Englishmen would think twice before addressing her as they did now.

She said: “My lords, I shall not sign the treaty of Edinburgh.”

“It has been signed in Edinburgh, Madame.”

“But it would seem that it does not become valid until you have my signature.”

This they could not deny.

Here was another of those moments of folly, the result of hurt pride and ignorance.

“Then, my lords, I will say to you that I cannot give you the signature for which you ask. I must have time to ponder the matter.”

Exasperated, they left her. They wrote to their mistress; and Elizabeth of England vowed that she would never forgive—and never trust—her Scottish kinswoman as long as that beautiful head remained on those elegant shoulders.

SHE TRAVELED down to Rheims to stay for a while with her aunt, Renée de Guise, at the Abbey Saint-Pierre-les-Dames. Renée, the sister of those ambitious uncles, was quite unlike them. Perhaps she, a member of that mighty and ambitious family, had felt the need to escape to a nunnery in order to eschew that ambition which was at the very heart of the family’s tradition.

There was quietness with Renée, but Mary did not want quiet. She was restless.

Renée, knowing that Mary was troubled, tried to help her through prayer. Mary realized that Renée was suggesting that if she too would shun ambition—as Renée had done—she might find peace in a life of dedication to prayer and service to others.

Mary, emotional in the extreme, thought for a short time—a very short time—of the peace to be found within convent walls. But when she looked in her mirror and saw her own beautiful face, and thought of dancing and masking with herself the centre of attention, when she remembered the admiration she had seen in the eyes of those men who surrounded her, she knew that whatever she had to suffer in the future—even if it meant returning to Scotland—it was the only life that would be acceptable to her.

With Renée she did become more deeply religious; she was even fired with a mission. Her country was straining toward Calvinism, and she would bring it back to the Church which she felt to be the only true one.

“But not,” she told Renée, “with torture and the fire, not with the thumbscrews and the rack. Perhaps I am weak, but I cannot bear to see men suffer, however wrong they are. Even though I knew the fires of hell lay before them, I could not torment myself by listening to their cries, and if I ever countenanced the torture, I believe those cries would reach me, though I were miles away.”

Renée smiled at Mary’s fierceness. She said: “You are Queen of a country that is strongly heretic. It is your duty to return to it and save it from damnation. You are young and weak … as yet. But the saints will show you how to act.”

Mary shuddered and, when she thought of that land in the grip of Calvin and his disciple Knox, she prayed that King Philip would agree to her marriage with his son, or perhaps, better still, she need never leave her beloved France. If Charles broke free of his mother’s influence, his first act would be to marry Mary Stuart.

To Rheims at this time came her relations on a visit to the Cardinal. The Duke arrived with his mother, and there followed Mary’s two younger uncles, the Due d’Aumale and the Marquis d’Elboeuf.

There were many conferences regarding Mary’s marriage into Spain.

The Cardinal took her to his private chamber and there he tried to revive their old relationship. But she had grown up in the last month and some of her innocence had left her. The Cardinal seemed different. She noticed the lines of debauchery on his face, and how could she help knowing that his love for her depended largely on her ability to give him that which he craved: power? She was no longer the simple girl she had been.

She was aloof and bewildered. It was no use, his drawing her gently to him, laying his fine hands on her, soothing and caressing, bringing her to that state of semi-trance when her will became subservient to his. She saw him more clearly now, and she saw a sly man. She already knew that he was a coward; and she believed that his love for her had diminished in proportion to her loss of power and usefulness.

Marriage with France. Marriage with Spain. They were like two bats chasing each other around in his brain; and he was the wily cat not quite quick enough to catch one of them. But perhaps there was another—more agile, more happily placed than he. Catherine continually foiled him. He was wishing he could slip the little “Italian morsel” into her goblet, as she was no doubt wishing she could slip it into his.

If he could but remove Catherine he would have Mary married to Charles in a very short time.

To Rheims came the news which sent the spirits of the whole family plunging down to deep depression.

Philip of Spain sent word that he would find it inconvenient, for some time to come, to continue with the negotiations for a marriage between his son Don Carlos and Mary Stuart.

Catherine de Médicis stood between Mary and the King of France. She had—by working in secret—insinuated herself between Mary and the heir of Spain.

Catherine was going to bring about that which she had long desired: the banishment from France of the young and beautiful Queen who had been such a fool as to show herself no friend to Catherine de Médicis.

Word came from Lord James Stuart. He was coming to France to persuade his sister that it was time she returned to her realm.

SO SHE WAS to leave the land she loved. The Court buzzed with the news. This was farewell to the dazzling Mary Stuart.

She tried to be brave, but there was a great fear within her.

She told her Marys: “It will only be for a short time. Soon I shall marry. Do not imagine we shall stay long in Scotland; I am sure that soon King Philip will continue with the arrangements for my marriage to Don Carlos.”

“It will be fun to go to Scotland for a while,” said Flem.

“They’ll soon find a husband for you,” declared Beaton.

While she too could think thus Mary felt almost gay. It would only be a temporary exile, and she would take with her many friends from the Court of France.

Henri de Montmorency, who had now become the Sieur d’Amville since the return of his father to power, whispered to her: “So France is to lose Your Majesty!”

She was hurt by his happy expression. She said tartly: “It would seem that you are one of those who rejoice in my departure.”

“I do, Your Majesty.”

“I pray you let me pass. I was foolish enough to think you had some regard for me. But that, of course, was for the Queen of France.”

He bent his head so that his eyes were near her own. “I rejoice,” he said, “because I have heard that I am to accompany your suite to Scotland.”

Her smile was radiant. “Monsieur…,” she began. “Monsieur d’Amville… I…”

He took her hands and kissed them passionately. For a moment she allowed this familiarity but she quickly remembered that she must be doubly cautious now. As Queen she could more easily have afforded to be lax than now when she was stripped of her dignity.

She said coolly: “I thank you for your expression of loyalty, Monsieur d’Amville.”

“Loyalty… and devotion,” he murmured, “my most passionate devotion.”

He left her then, and when he entered his suite he was smiling to himself. One of his attendants—a poet, Pierre de Chastelard—rose to greet him.

“You are happy today, my lord,” said Chastelard.

D’Amville nodded and continued to smile. “Shall I tell you why, Chastelard, my dear fellow? I have long loved a lady. Alas, she was far beyond my aspirations. But now I have gone up and she has come down. I think we have come to a point where we may most happily meet.”

“That is worthy of a poem,” suggested Chastelard.

“It is indeed. I have high hopes.”

“The lady’s name, sir?”

“A secret.”

“But if I am to sing her praises in verse…”

“Well then, I’ll whisper it, but tell no one that Henri de Montmorency is deep in love with the beautiful Mary Stuart who is going to be in need of comfort when she reaches her barbaric land. I shall be there to give it. That is why you see me so gay.”

“Now I understand, my lord. It is enough to make any man gay. She is a beautiful creature and was most chaste, it would seem, when married to our King François. Even Brantôme—who can usually find some delicious tidbit of scandal concerning the seemingly most virtuous—has had nothing but praise to sing of the Queen of Scots.”

“She is charming,” said D’Amville. “And it is true that she is chaste. What is it about her… tell me that. You are something of a connoisseur, my friend. She is innocent and yet… and yet…”

“And yet… and yet…,” cried Chastelard. “My lady fair is innocent and yet… and yet… and yet…”

The two young men laughed together.

“May all good luck attend you,” said Chastelard. “I envy you from the bottom of my heart.”

“My hopes soar. She will be desolate. She will be ready to love anyone who is French while she is in that dreary land. You shall accompany me, my dear Chastelard; you shall share in my triumph … at secondhand, of course!”

When the two young men went out to follow the hunt they were still talking of the charms of Mary Stuart.

MARY HAD MANY causes for anxiety as she contemplated the journey ahead of her. The Queen of England declared she would deny her a safe passage until she signed the treaty of Edinburgh. Mary was on her mettle then. She was determined not to let the Tudor see that she feared her ships and sailors. She said so boldly.

“I may pass well enough home into my realm,” she said to Nicholas Throgmorton, “without your mistress’s passport. I remember your late King tried to prevent my arrival in France; but you see, Monsieur, I came safely without his permission. So I shall journey to my kingdom without that of your mistress.”

It was folly, but she felt stronger for committing it. From now on she would act in accordance with her own wishes. She had gathered some notion of the unhappy state of her country when on her way from Rheims to Lorraine she was met by one of the Catholic lords—John Lesley—who had come to tell her that he brought with him the fealty of the Catholics in Scotland. Caithness, Crawford, Huntley and Atholl were firmly behind her, he assured her. Their plan was that she should land secretly in Scotland, enter Edinburgh with a good force behind her and drive the heretic Lord James from his position as the head of the country in her absence.

She was alarmed. James was her brother—her dear Jamie. She had loved James. She knew he was a Protestant and that it would be his wish to make Scotland Protestant as hers was to make the country Catholic; but she was determined not to be a bigot, dearly as she loved her own faith and sure as she was that the Catholic Church was the true one. She could not feel happy, she said, contemplating that, on her arrival in her country, she would have to fight her own brother.

Fortunately she was able to speak with the Sieur d’Oysel, that French officer who had, in Scotland, worked so faithfully for her mother.

He shook his head over the project. “Your Majesty,” he said, “if you will deign to hear the advice of one who has campaigned long in your country and knows the temper of the people, he would say this: No doubt you wish to bring the Catholic Faith back to Scotland, but there are many in your land who are faithful to the Protestant cause, and to take arms against it at this time would plunge the whole of Scotland into a civil war. Your brother, Lord James, is a Protestant and you are a Catholic, but you need him. He will be loyal to you for expediency’s sake, if for no other reason. If you lost your crown where would he be? As a Stuart he must support a Stuart. His rivals—as yours are—would always be the Hamiltons or the Gordons. Do not be tempted to rash action. Your brother and Lord Maitland of Lethington are the cleverest statesmen in Scotland. They are both Protestants, but Your Majesty needs them. Therefore be discreet. Shelve the problem of religion until you have tested your people, and your brother with them. He could raise an army, so make sure—and this is what he would prefer to do—that he raises it for you and not against you.”

It was advice which she gladly took, for the prospect of civil war horrified her.

It was only a day or so later when Lord James himself arrived. When she saw him she was glad she had not allowed herself to be caught up in any intrigue against him. He was friendly and courteous; he was also very affectionate. He was very much the big brother whom she remembered. He was nearly thirty now and that seemed, to her, a very wise and experienced age.

He told her how happy he was that she was coming home.

“I am glad you will be there, Jamie.”

He smiled at the use of the childhood name.

“Though you hardly seem like Jamie now,” she went on. “Why, you are looking so wise, so full of knowledge. A deal must have happened to you since we last met.”

“All my experience I place at your service.”

He talked a little of affairs in Scotland, warning her to beware of certain lords. She listened half-heartedly. She was tired of the stories of continual strife.

“Jamie,” she said, “I wish you had not gone so far along the road to Protestantism.”

“My dear little sister, you have been brought up with Papists. Wait until you return home. Wait till you hear the sermons John Knox delivers in the Kirk at Edinburgh. Mayhap then you’ll come along with me on that road to Protestantism.”

“I shall try to make you turn back, Jamie. I shall try to make you come with me”

He smiled indulgently. He still looked upon her as the little sister. She was very charming, with such airs and graces that could be so delightful in a ballroom. She had all the necessary gifts to make her a great lady; none, he believed, to make her a great ruler. She was as different from the redheaded Queen below the Border as any woman could be. It was not surprising. Elizabeth had faced a hundred dangers when she was a child; Mary had been petted from babyhood.

“I am sure,” he said, “that you can discourse most learnedly and charmingly on all subjects. It is one of the accomplishments they have taught you so well in France.”

“Jamie, Rome would be ready to offer you great honors if you would change your mind.”

“My mind is made up, dear sister; and it is firmly turned away from the Church of Rome.”

“Then there is nothing I can say to turn you back to it?”

“Nothing. And there are other and urgent matters to discuss.”

“It will be a comfort to know that you are at my side to help me.”

He took her hand and let his lips rest lightly on it. “I shall serve you faithfully while you serve Scotland,” he said.

She believed him; there was that about James which made her believe him. She felt a little happier for her interview with him. But when he had left she still made excuses to stay in France.

OFTEN MARY lay sleepless through the night thinking of the perilous journey across the seas. She would dream that the ships of the Queen of England captured hers; she dreamed that she stood before the redheaded virago, who swore she would have vengeance because Mary had denied her right to the crown of England.

Back in Scotland were the quarrelsome nobles. Her brother and Maitland had not been good friends to her mother, she remembered. The Catholic nobles, led by Huntley, the Cock o’ the North, were untrustworthy. Yet she must go amongst them; and to reach them she must brave the perils of the English seas.

Suddenly there came to her memory a man—an insolent man, yet a bold one. He was no friend of the Catholic nobles, and no friend of her brother and Maitland; rather, he had stood alone, a chieftain of the Border country, ruthless and despotic; yet her mother had said she would rely on his loyalty more readily than on that of any other man in Scotland.

Then Mary made a sudden decision. She would send a messenger to James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, instructing him, as Admiral, to arrange for her safe passage to Scotland.

She was surprised how much happier she could feel knowing that the arrangement for the voyage would be in the hands of a strong man.

BOTHWELL WAS delighted to receive the summons. He believed his fortunes were now on the rise. He would ingratiate himself with the Queen. Moreover the prospect of a battle with the English delighted him. He began to plan for immediate departure.

Anna Throndsen watched him with passionate eyes. Their life together was a battle. She would win one skirmish and lose the next. She was clever, but so was he, and he had all the advantages.

“I depart tomorrow,” he told her gleefully.

“But you have just arrived.”

So he had. She was living in one of his houses and he visited her now and then. He snapped his fingers at her. He would not marry her. But there were times when he liked to visit her; he enjoyed the battles between them and delighted to arouse her anger, to hear her swear that she hated him, that she wished never to see him again; and then have her sobbing out her passionate need of him, caught in one of those weak moments when quite effortlessly he could sweep away all her resistance and leave her quivering with passion. That was his special gift. He had no need to stress it; it was simply there, and his very indifference to it enhanced it.

“I come and go as I please,” he told her.

“And where shall you go this time?” she asked. “Back to that old hag Janet Beaton? Have you then such a fancy for the aged? Do you prefer grandmothers?”

“I shall not go to Janet this time, but to a young woman. She sends for me because none other will suit her purpose.”

Passion flamed in Anna’s face. She ran to him and slapped his cheek. To him the blow was no more than a tap. He laughed aloud and caught her hand.

“Why, Anna,” he said, “you almost tempt me to stay another night. I like you better in anger than in gentle love.”

“I wish I had never seen you.”

“It might have saved much inconvenience if I had never seen you”

“I thought you never allowed women to inconvenience you?”

“I do not… for long.”

“You are quite heartless. Have you no thought for the child?”

“I have so many children, they tell me. Were I to concern myself with all of them, I should have time for nothing else.”

“Who is the woman you are going to see, if it is not Janet?”

“She is very beautiful. I can tell you that.”

“Who, I asked.”

“Try to guess.”

She struggled in his grip while her eyes blazed. “I’ll tell you,” he said. “Her name is Mary and she is the Queen of Scotland.”

“The Queen!”

“She sends for me to bring her safely back to Scotland.”

“For you! So she too!”

He laughed. “Anna, you are a fool. You see passion everywhere. This is a command from a queen to a subject.”

“But why you… why you?”

“Because her mother knew she could trust me. She knew I hated the English. Mayhap this Queen knows that I shall serve her well for the reason that I am a Borderer and a natural enemy of those on the other side. There is hardly a man in Scotland of any standing who is not in the pay of the English. Lord James himself… Maitland… anyone you can name. But I have never taken a bribe from them. I have taken their cattle and I have taken their women. I am their enemy and they know it. The Queen knows it. So she now asks me to arrange her safe passage, and, my dear Anna, I go with all speed.”

“The Queen will reward you,” said Anna.

“Doubtless.”

“And when she does, you will do the right thing by our child? You will do the right thing by me?”

He sighed deeply. “Who knows, Anna? Who knows?”

Now her eyes began to blaze again with anger, and he laughed. As he had told her, he liked her thus; and it would be a long time before he saw her again.

IT WAS AUGUST. Through the French countryside passed a brilliant cavalcade at the head of which in a magnificent carriage decorated with cloth of gold and silver and bearing the arms of Guise and Lorraine rode the great Duke and his brother, the Cardinal. There followed in a beautiful chariot Mary Stuart; and behind her came her four Marys with a company of French noblemen, poets and musicians.

Mary knew that at Calais she would say good-bye to those two uncles who had been her guardians since she had set foot in France, but their three brothers, Mary’s uncles, Claude the Duc d’Aumale, François the Grand Prior of Lorraine, and René the Marquis d’Elboeuf, were to accompany her to Scotland. She was glad of this; her uncle René she liked particularly because he had a gay nature and it was a comfort to have him with her.

She was conscious all the time of Henri de Montmorency, the Sieur d’Amville, who made it his delight to be at her side and gratify her smallest wish. He had introduced to her notice a very personable young man who played the lute with charm and wrote verses which fell not far short of those of Ronsard. This was Pierre de Chastelard, and she had made up her mind that she would reward that young man with a good post when they reached Scotland. She liked him; he was so gay and charming; and she was fond of poets. Unfortunately he was a Huguenot, she had heard; but then, so was Henri de Montmorency, and she would not let a persons religious opinions interfere with the friendship she felt.

She was a little happier than she had feared she would be, and that was due to the people who were going with her. She looked around the company. There were many familiar faces.

She was glad to see Lord Bothwell’s among them. She was not sure of her feelings regarding him as a person; he was certainly rather crude but he gave such an impression of strength and power that when she contemplated the journey before her and all its perils, she was glad to know that he was with the expedition.

He had come promptly at her summons; he had arranged for her departure with Lord Eglinton. She trusted them both, for their loyalty and their knowledge of the sea.

Flem had said that Bothwell should travel in the galley with Mary and themselves, but Mary would not have it.

“No,” she said, “suffice it that he is with the party.”

“But,” persisted Flem, “Your Majesty says that you feel safer because he is of the party.”

“Safer, yes—but it is enough that he is in one of the galleys. He will be at hand to save us from our enemies. And in my galley I wish to have those about me whom I love… my dearest friends and those who delight me with their company.”

“And he does not?”

“He is a Scotsman of rough speech, and we shall see enough of such in the months to come. I wish to enjoy cultured society for as long as I can. Only you, my four darlings, and my dear uncles and a few of our chosen friends shall sail in the first galley. The others may follow, and among them the Border Earl.”

Flem sighed, causing Mary to smile. “You seem to have a fondness for him,” she teased. “Have a care. I have heard that his reputation is quite shocking.”

“It is simply that he has an air of being able to subdue anyone… including the Queen of England.”

“He has a blustering manner, it is true,” agreed Mary, “but he shall not subdue the Queen of Scotland. No! He shall travel in one of the accompanying vessels with others like himself.”

And so it was arranged.

When Mary stepped into the galley a sense of foreboding had come to her. She looked very lovely, dressed in her mourning costume. Her veil was full and held in place on each shoulder; her headdress was the shape of a scallop shell and set with pearls, and about her neck was a collar of pearls. Her flowing gown was of cloth of silver and most becoming with its sleeves full from the elbow to shoulder and tight from elbow to wrist; the ruff of point lace set off her face to perfection.

Her uneasiness was enhanced by the terrible accident which took place before her eyes. The sails had not been completely unfurled and the royal galley had not left the harbor when a ship, entering the port, capsized suddenly and all aboard were drowned, as no help could reach them in time.

Mary cried out to those aboard to turn back, to do something; but the galley could not turn around and there was nothing to be done but watch the struggling bodies in the water or turn shuddering away.

It was a bad omen, said everyone; this meant bad luck for the Queen of Scots.

Mary walked up and down the deck, her eyes fixed on the land she was leaving. She longed to move out of sight of those shores, yet she dreaded the moment when she would no longer see them.

She could not forget the terrible screams of those drowning men. She explored the galley in the hope of turning her mind to other things, but her sadness was not relieved by the sight of the slaves, with their shaven heads and despairing faces, who worked at the oars. She could not bear to look at their naked backs which were marked by the lash. She thought of them, sweating over the oars when the wind was against them; she thought of them exposed to the cruel weather, with the chains about their legs; they were such sad creatures that they must have longed continually for death.

Impetuously she called the Captain to her and said: “The galley slaves shall not be whipped while I am aboard. No matter what happens … no matter what, I say… the lash shall not be used. Do you hear me?”

The Captain was amazed and about to protest; but she had turned away, and those who were near saw the tears streaming down her cheeks.

As it grew dark her Marys begged her to leave the deck and go to her cabin, which had been decorated in a manner fitting a Queen; but she could not bear to turn her eyes from the last glimpse of that land which she loved.

“It is now, my dear France,” she said, “that I have lost you, for the envious darkness like a black veil conceals you from my eyes which are thus deprived of their chief desire. Adieu then, my beloved France! I lose sight of you and I shall never see you again.”

“Dearest Majesty,” pleaded Seton, “meat and drink await you. You must sleep. You can do no good waiting here.”

But Mary shook her head. She turned to the Captain and said: “Set up a bed for me here.”

“Here, Madame, on the poop gallery?”

“Yes, here,” she commanded. “For when it is again light it may still be possible to see the shores of France. I must not be deprived of a last glimpse of them.”

So the bed was set up on the poop gallery, and Mary lay down while her women drew the curtains.

“As soon as the first glimmer of light is in the sky you must awaken me,” she ordered.

The wind died down during the night so that when the dawn came the galley was still close to the French coast.

It was Flem who awakened Mary, and the young Queen started up from her bed, her eyes red from last night’s weeping, her sorrow returning as she remembered where she was.

The curtains about her bed were drawn back and, looking out, she saw the receding land of France.

She wept afresh.

“It is over,” she said. “Farewell beloved land which I shall behold no more. Farewell, France!”

Thus she remained until there was no longer sight of land.

The perilous journey to Scotland had begun.