Royal Road to Fotheringhay - Plaidy Jean (хороший книги онлайн бесплатно .txt) 📗
Now Mary had her own little court—her friends among that little circle in which she and Francois were as Queen and King. She and Francois 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, Francois was in truth their nephew now. Francois 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 Francois 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 Francois 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-Cambresis 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-Cambresis. 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.
