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 Francois. 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 Conde, 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 Francois 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 Francois 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.

Francois 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, Francois,” she said.

“Mary, I love you so.”

“I love you too, Francois.”

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

“Yes, Francois. 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 chateau, built by his father Francois Premier, at Villers-Cotterets. So to this chateau went Francois 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 chateau. 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.