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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 begi
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 ca
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.