Queen's Own Fool (15 page)

“It is of no consequence,” said the dowager. “Death will make fools of us all in the end.”

“My concern is with the living,” said the duke. “We are hedged about with enemies ready to leap at the first sign of weakness. We must address the question of who rules France.”

“You may set your mind at ease upon that score,” the dowager announced solemnly. “I rule now.”

I held back a gasp. What could she mean?

The duke and his brother exchanged dark glances, then the cardinal spoke. “Surely, Your Highness, there should be some discussion of what is best for the country and ...”

The dowager cut him off with an impatient gesture. “My son Charles is next in line for the throne. As he is only eleven—not old enough to rule on his own—I am assuming the office of regent. I shall rule until he comes of age.”

“Are you entirely sure you are ready for the responsibility?” the cardinal asked in a voice that oozed concern. “To rule France is far different from sitting at the king's side and offering a few words of counsel, however wise.”

“Do not condescend to me, Charles,” the dowager snapped, her voice as hard as her face. “The only other person with a legitimate claim to the regency is the King of Navarre.” There was something almost triumphant in her manner.

“Navarre? But he is a friend of the Huguenots.” The cardinal fingered the jeweled cross that hung around his neck. “His own brother, Louis de Conde, is awaiting execution for planning the attack at Amboise.”

“Exactly,” said the dowager. “Under such circumstances, would you uphold Navarre's claim against mine?”

“No, of course not,” the duke put in quickly. “In fact, Madam, that is the very reason why you will need our protection. Navarre will surely contest your claim. We should raise an army at once to forestall any move on his part.”

“That will not be necessary,” said the dowager. She smiled thinly. “I expect Navarre to give his full support to me.”

“And why, Madam, should he give you his support?” The cardinal could not disguise his astonishment.

“I intend to purchase it ... by freeing his brother.”

“Freeing de Conde? But the man is a traitor!” blustered the duke.

“He is a Huguenot, but as much a nobleman of France as you are. I think we have had enough of death these past months.”

Queen Mary gave my hand a squeeze and gave me a small smile, as if relieved at the dowager's words. Remembering the awful deaths at Amboise, I was relieved as well.

Meanwhile the duke and his brother continued to exchange uneasy glances.

“Madam,” said the duke with a small bow, “we stand ready to offer you our guidance and assistance.”

“That is very generous of you,” the dowager replied. It did not sound to me as if that was what she meant at all. “However I will be appointing my own ministers.”

The cardinal could not have looked more startled if someone had slapped him across the face in the middle of mass. The duke's face was unreadable.

I glanced again at Queen Mary. She was biting her lower lip.

The dowager turned to her daughter-in-law, her voice like ice. “Mary, in order to ensure the smooth transfer of power, you must return the royal jewels to the treasury at once.”

This time I could not control myself. I gasped out loud.

“Of course,” Queen Mary replied, dropping my hand and smoothing down her skirts. Though her voice was equally cool, I could tell she was shocked by the abruptness of the request. Her palm had gone suddenly wet.

“From now on,” the dowager continued, “you are free of the burdens of royal office. At the end of our period of mourning, you may retire to your estates in Touraine or Poitou.”

“Away from court ... ?” I began, my passion running ahead of caution. However, a hooded look from the dowager was enough to stop my mouth, like a cork in a bottle.

Queen Mary only nodded but did not otherwise move.

“Now, gentlemen, I leave you with your niece. I am sure you have many personal matters to discuss. As regent,
I
must begin arrangements for the royal funeral.” Her head was high, neck rigid, the veins running like sharp ridges from under her chin. Then she turned in a swirl of dark silk and went out the door.

We all bowed as she left, even my queen.

16

DECISIONS

T
hat sorceress!” the cardinal fumed. ”That witch! She has been planning this move since Francis became ill, I am certain of it. What a heartless mother. What a ...”

“Brilliant conniver?” put in the duke.

His brother nodded. “I would not be surprised if she has already been in contact with Navarre.”

They spoke as if neither the queen nor I was in the room.

The duke snorted. “Of course she has. How else could she be so confident of his support?”

“The object of the game,” I said suddenly under my breath, “is to capture the king.”

The duke turned and barked at me, “What was that, fool?”

I glanced at the queen. Her face gave me no clue. In fact she was staring into space, grieving—I guessed-for both the loss of her husband and the loss of her throne.

“I asked a question, girl,” said the duke, his voice like a newly-honed knife.

I shrugged. If he wanted an answer, I would give it to him. But I spoke my answer quietly. “In chess, Your Grace-at least as I have observed—there comes a time when even the cleverest of players will be beaten and swept—queen and all—from the board.”

The duke scowled, but he did not deny the truth of it. Instead he turned to the queen, who had sunk down onto the chaise longue and was staring dejectedly at the floor.

“We have much to discuss, Mary,” the duke said.

She looked up, glancing from the duke to his brother and back again, her eyes still red from weeping. “Yes?”

“We must decide on a new husband for you at once,” said the cardinal, fingering his cross. “Only through marriage can you regain your influence.”

He did not add:
and we ours.
But I heard it.

The cardinal continued. “Now, marriage to Don Carlos, the heir to the throne of Spain, would create a most Catholic alliance. When he succeeds to the throne, you would be the most powerful queen in Europe. Even greater than France's queen.”

“My beloved husband, my best friend, is just minutes dead and you speak of marriage to me?” Her green-gold eyes suddenly blazed.

I rushed to her rescue with as little thought to my own safety as when the dwarf La Folle had skidded across the floor for her king.

“Madam,” I said, addressing her in the voice I used when entertaining, light and frivolous. “Don Carlos is a small boy. And an ill-behaved one.”

“What would
you
know of such things?” the duke demanded.

“Even fools have ears,” I said. Standing up for the queen made me bold.

“And they should be boxed!” the duke retorted.

“Is it true, Uncle?” Queen Mary asked, her voice quiet, but firm. A queen's voice. “About Don Carlos?”

The duke turned his back on her.

“Surely these minor faults,” the cardinal said pleasantly as he maneuvered himself between me and the queen, “these
very
minor faults, count for less than the nobility of his blood.”

Queen Mary's voice drawled out slowly. “And how will Queen Catherine feel about that? We can make no such a move now without consulting her. As regent she ...”

“She
will oppose it.” The duke turned around again and looked directly at the queen. “If we give her the chance. She wishes Don Carlos to marry one of her own daughters.”

The de Guise brothers were a wall between the queen and me and I could do nothing to break through. I could not even see her.

“Then I do not see how we can proceed with such an alliance,” the queen said. I noticed she did not use the word
marriage.

“There are other alternatives.” The duke counted on his fingers. “The kings of Sweden and Denmark are both in need of a bride. And there is Archduke Charles of Austria.”

“Then there is the Duke of Ferrera, recently widowed and a fine gentleman,” added the cardinal.

I could not stand their two against one any longer. I said—as if to myself—“And very old. An oak surrounded by acorns.”

The cardinal turned to scold me. “The duke's lands are very well placed. He wields considerable influence in many of the courts of Europe.”

But now I could see the queen. Moving towards her, I forced them all to watch me. It was a trick of Uncle's.
Catch the eye of the audience,
he used to say,
and they are halfway to being yours
.

“If the queen must marry again, why not find her a Prince Charming?” I said, as if talking to myself. “Even if his kingdom is very small. Though Mary is no longer France's queen, she is still Queen of Scotland. Surely she deserves a happy ever after in this once upon a time.”

“These romantic fancies are all very well for fairy tales,” seethed the cardinal. “But in the real world, the queen's duty to family and nation determines whom she must marry.” His voice was a controlled fury. He looked directly at me as he spoke, but his message was clearly for his niece.

The queen suddenly stood. There were two spots of color on her cheeks. “You are wrong in this, Uncle, and my fool is right. I need no marriage to make me great. I am still a queen.”

“Of Scotland,” the cardinal said, speaking the name as if it were a burr under the tongue. “Scotland is very small and very far away. It has little influence upon the affairs of France, which is the greatest country in the civilized world.” He spoke angrily, as if chastising a child. “And while the title sits well upon you, Highness, I think you would find it less comfortable to actually rule that troublesome country.”

“I do not remember it being so ... so troublesome.”

He threw his hands up, clearly tired of her arguments.

“Childhood memories gild even the poorest surroundings.” He started to pace and matched his sentences to his steps. “The Scots castles are grey and bare. Their palaces lack the most basic amenities. The land itself is mountainous and infertile. The weather freezing in winter, scarcely warmer in summer. The people are hostile, ill disposed to strangers, and mean.” He stopped and glared at her. “To call Scotland ‘bad' is to libel the word.”

“But, my lord,” I said in my fool's voice, “is it not better to eat bread in your own small house, than to dine on venison in prison?”

“Brava, Nicola!” said the queen, clapping her hands and smiling.

“The Scots,” the cardinal said in a rush to the queen—and ignoring me completely—“are an ungovernable race. Their barren land has fallen into the hands of the Protestants, who have renounced the rule of the pope and made the saying of mass a crime. ”

The queen shook her head. “Tell me, Uncle, how can they make illegal that which God has ordained?”

“They have done so,” the cardinal said, “under penalty of death. Would you hazard your life for the dubious honor of ruling such a place?” His face was now as red as his robe.

At last coming to his brother's aid, the duke said, “To go there without an army to impose your will on the people would be sheer madness.” He hesitated, then added, “You can no longer count on support from France, not while the dowager holds the throne.”

“An army? Why would I need an army? I want to be the Scots' beloved queen, not their conqueror,” said the queen.

Brava, Your Majesty
, I thought. Aloud I said, “Madam, His Grace, the duke—being a soldier—of course believes every problem can be solved by sending in an army.”

“I need no army to settle
your
insolence, peasant!” the duke roared, raising his hand to strike.

“No!” screamed the queen, rushing towards him and standing between us. “You will not touch her. She is my fool, sent to me by God. I have given her complete leave to speak the truth.”

The duke was so taken aback to hear her address him in such a manner, he lowered his hand, but slowly.

“Is it not enough that I have lost my husband today? Will you now harm the sweetest flower in my garden?” the queen said.

“A nettle more like,” said the cardinal in a low voice.

“If so, Uncle, then it is one that stings in my defense. Please leave me with Nicola. I will speak to you both again later.”

There was no room for argument, so the two men left the room, backs stiff, like dogs beaten in a fight trying to retain some bit of dignity in retreat.

Walking over to the window, the queen gazed wistfully out at the night sky. “Nicola, my Jardinière, what am I to do? Should I retire to a château in the country and pass the time dancing and hunting until everyone has forgotten me?”

“You are a queen, Madam, not yet twenty years old. You are both beautiful and wise. You cannot be hidden away any more than you can hide a bonfire in a cupboard.”

Still looking at the sky, she asked, “Then should I marry again, as my uncles advise?”

“They would have you marry only in order to restore their own power,” I said. “And the dowager would not have you marry at all.”

She nodded. “That sounds very sensible, as sensible as something my uncles would say. But I want you to speak like a fool.”

She was putting so much trust in my counsel, I took a long moment before answering. “A fool,” I said at last, “would set aside all counsel and go where her heart leads.”

“And what if she does not know where her heart is leading?” she asked, turning away from the window and gazing full at me.