Royal Road to Fotheringhay - Plaidy Jean (хороший книги онлайн бесплатно .txt) 📗

“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 Orleans. 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. Pare, 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 Francois 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 Francois were about to mount their horses when Francois, 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 Francois, 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.