And Margot herself? If Margot were my daughter, thought Jeanne, I would not spare the rod. For there was something about Margot, Jeanne was sure, which should be very closely watched. Margot was five years old now, and she would have been a lovely child but for the heavy Valois nose which she had inherited from her grandfather. Margot was clever, vivacious and precocious – far too precocious. It was rare for a child so young to betray such sensuality. Margot at five was, in some ways, like an experienced woman, with those sly glances at the boys, those gestures. Jeanne was thankful that Margot and her Henry had fought one another. She would not have liked to have seen her son attracted by this wicked little Margot as he was by lovely coquettish Mary Queen of Scots. It seemed, watching these children, that Margot at five years old was already deeply involved in a love affair with the Duke of Guise’s little boy – another Henry. They were continually creeping away together and returning flushed and excited.
Little Hercule was a pretty boy, though spoilt and utterly selfish. He was four years old – a few months younger than her own Henry.
Yes, there was something unpleasant about this family of children, for none of them seemed quite normal; and when Jeanne saw them with their mother she felt that the strangeness had its origin in her. She seemed to inspire them with awe and fascination, so that they wanted the approval of their mother more than anything, although they so greatly feared her displeasure. Jeanne realised that Queen Catherine was able to inspire strange feelings in those about her – feelings which were quite remote from affection.
Yet, when the children were with their father they seemed normal enough. The madness faded from Charles’s eyes; Henry seemed less foppish; Margot would climb on to her father’s knee and pull his beard as any little girl might. They were just happy children in the presence of their father.
The Dauphin’s wedding was heralded by ceremonies and feasting. Antoine declared his pleasure in being with his wife after their long separations; this, he said, when they watched tournaments, when they danced and feasted, was like a second honeymoon. And Jeanne, looking about her at the discord which existed between most other married people, told herself that she was foolish to criticise the little faults of her husband; she went on to her knees and thanked God for granting her the dearest possession she would ever have – her husband’s love.
She was sorry for Catherine, who must see her husband’s mistress take everything that should be hers. Indeed, everywhere one looked one saw the entwined initials D and H – Diane and Henry – not C and H, as custom and tradition demanded. What humiliation! And how patiently it was borne!
‘If you were to treat me like that,’ said Jeanne to Antoine, ‘I would have that woman banished from the kingdom. I would not endure such miserable slights.’
‘Ah, my sweet love,’ said the faithful Antoine, ‘but you are not Catherine de’ Medici and I am not Henry of France. You are your sweet self, and for that I am thankful. Why, were I married to the Italian woman, I doubt not that I should cease to be a faithful husband.’
There were occasions when Jeanne fancied she saw Catherine’s eyes upon her and that Catherine guessed how she was pitied; and when the prominent eyes met her own Jeanne could not, for some incomprehensible reason, suppress a shiver. There were times when she thought Catherine de’ Medici possessed strange powers which enabled her to read the thoughts of others.
The day before that of the wedding a long gallery was erected between the Palace of the Bishop of Paris, where the company had spent the night, to the west door of the Cathedral of Notre Dame; and the porch of the Cathedral was hung with scarlet tapestries embroidered with the fleurs-de-lis. Antoine walked in the procession in a place of honour among the Princes of the blood royal whose task it was to escort the Dauphin to the Cathedral. The King himself followed with Mary Queen of Scots; and Jeanne came after with Catherine and the other attendant Princesses.
At the ceremony few had eyes for any but the bride. Lovely she always was, but to-day her beauty seemed greater than ever. She was robed in white and her crown was studded with pearls, diamonds, sapphires, emeralds – in fact, it seemed that every precious stone that existed was represented among those in her crown.
But Antoine, Jeanne noticed, hardly looked at the bride, and Jeanne believed that for Antoine at least there was only one woman who interested him – his wife. Then she felt as though her heart would burst with its burden of pride and happiness. It was fifteen years ago when, at the christening of this Dauphin, Jeanne had fallen in love with the man who was now her husband.
Jeanne knew suddenly that she wished above all things to embrace her husband’s faith and the faith of his family; she wished to lead a good and serious life.
This was a solemn moment for Jeanne. She did not hear the Cardinal of Bourbon make Francis and Mary husband and wife; nor was she aware of the celebration of mass. Later at the wedding banquet she was absent-minded; and when the party left the episcopal palace for Les Tournelles she was still thoughtful.
Now came the climax of her content. The mummers had come into the great hall; and when their entertainment was over the royal children, with those of the family of Guise, rode on hobby horses with back-cloths of gold and silver, and they attached their horses to little coaches while they sang, in their sweet, piping voices, praise to the virtue and beauty of the married pair. Then came the joyful surprise. Into the ballroom were brought six galleons, rolled and tossed by means of ropes which were hidden from sight; and in each galleon sat a Prince, and each Prince sprang from his galleon to choose a lady to be his companion. The Dauphin, naturally enough, chose his bride; but to the delight of Jeanne and the astonishment of everyone, Antoine de Bourbon carried off none other than his own wife; and he was the only Prince, apart from the Dauphin, to do this.
This was a matter for comment, laughter and a little envy among the ladies of the court.
As for Jeanne, she sat in her galleon, with Antoine’s arms about her, laughing, reminding him that at this cynical court of France such an action was the last expected of any man who had been a husband for more than a few days.
This was a precious moment which she would remember as long as she lived. She was completely happy; but afterwards she was wont to connect that ride in the galleon with the end of that happy and contented life.
* * *
It was just over a year later when, in the château of Nérac, Antoine de Bourbon was making preparations for yet another visit to the court of France. Jeanne was disturbed; she was always disturbed when Antoine left her. She was becoming more and more involved in the Reformed Faith and was deeply concerned at the horrors which were being committed by Catholics and Protestants all over the country. The Prince of Condé, Antoine’s younger brother, and his wife Eléonore, with her relations, the Colignys, were looked upon as the leaders of the Reformed Party; they were powerful, but there were others more powerful than they. There were the Guises, the natural enemies and rivals of the Bourbons.
First there was Francis, the Duke of Guise – insolent, arrogant, brutal, the greatest soldier in France. If the nation in general feared this man, Paris adored him. He was attractive in person, and his successes in battle were admired by his friends and enemies alike. Le Balafré was the most discussed man in France.
Then there was his brother Charles, the Cardinal of Lorraine, who would, Jeanne had said, ‘like to set households by the ears all over France’. Duke Francis was often campaigning and therefore absent from court, and the other Guise brothers were insignificant when compared with the Cardinal of Lorraine. He was clever – the cleverest, the most sly member of his family; amorous in the extreme, he was the handsomest of the Guise brothers, and there was a certain nobility in his features, in spite of his lechery and excesses, which most women found irresistible. He was mean and acquisitive, surrounding himself with luxury and the good things of life, even more than did the English Cardinal Wolsey. He was vain and – extraordinary failing in a Guise – he was a coward.
It was these men of whom Jeanne thought when her husband was summoned to court.
Jeanne watched the preparations for the journey. Antoine was dilatory, one day abandoning plans which the day before he had made with great eagerness.
‘Antoine, my darling,’ she said, ‘there are times when I believe you do not wish to make the journey to court.’
‘But why should I, my love, when it means absenting myself from you?’
She could only laugh with pleasure at that, laugh with happiness; she could only suppress those fears which her husband’s weak and vacillating nature aroused in her.
She was happier now than she had ever been, she often reminded herself. She had, in addition to her son Henry, an adorable daughter to whom, because the Queen herself had acted as godmother, had been given the name of Catherine. Thank God, thought Jeanne again and again, thank God for this domestic bliss.
There were great celebrations in progress at court. Elisabeth, daughter of the King and Queen, was being married by proxy to Philip of Spain. Jeanne’s heart bled for Elisabeth, for it seemed to her that Catherine and Henry were marrying their child to a monster. But such was the fate of royal children. Here was yet another reminder of her great good fortune, for her father had tried to make a match for herself with the man who was about to be Elisabeth’s husband. And following on the wedding of Elisabeth was that of Marguerite, the King’s sister, to the Duke of Savoy.
‘You should have been present at these ceremonies,’ she had told Antoine.
‘Nay!’ he declared. ‘There is nowhere I should be but in my own home with my wife and family.’
It was so easy to enjoy this domestic bliss, to forget what was happening in the outside world, forget that, being a branch of the royal tree, it was impossible to escape the reverberations of great happenings.
Antoine was still loitering with his preparations when, one day, messengers arrived at the castle. They had come from the court of France with great news.
‘The King is dead!’ they cried. ‘Long live King Francis!’
It seemed incredible. Only a little while ago, at the wedding of Francis, the King had been in perfect health. It was at the tournament, the messengers explained; he had tilted with young Montgomery, a captain of the Scottish Guard, who had struck the King on the gorget; his lance had flown into splinters, one of which had become lodged in King Henry’s eye.
‘This was treason!’ said Antoine.
‘Nay, Monseigneur,’ said the messenger. ‘The King would not have it so. He had insisted on Montgomery’s tilting with him in spite of the young man’s reluctance; and he had declared that it was no fault of the young man’s.’
The messengers had been given refreshments, and Jeanne and Antoine walked about the castle grounds talking of this dramatic event. Jeanne, with a clear-sightedness which she was rapidly acquiring, saw that it was of the utmost importance that Antoine should go at once to court. This upheaval would have a great effect upon the entire country.
‘My husband,’ she declared, ‘you must not forget that you are a Prince and the head of the House of Bourbon. Next to the royal Valois children, you are first in the land. Francis is sickly; Charles too. And Henry and Hercule?’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Yes, there are many between. But how can a boy of sixteen rule France? Experienced men like his grandfather and his father were faced with a hundred difficulties, had a thousand hazardous decisions to make. Our country is divided and there is bloodshed everywhere … in the name of religion. The King will need advisers, Antoine, and you should be one of them.’
‘You are right. I must go to Paris with all speed. If it should be necessary for me to stay there, you will join me, my darling?’
‘Yes. I will join you with the children. We can be happy in Paris, Antoine, as in Nérac.’
She frowned, even as she spoke. ‘I fear the Guises,’ she said. ‘The new King’s wife is their niece, and through her they will have the King’s ear. Antoine, I greatly fear that this will mean more persecutions of those who follow the new religion.’
‘Never fear, my love. My brother Condé and I … with Uncle Gaspard on our side … will outwit the family of Guise.’
She kissed him fondly; adoring him as she did, it was so easy to see in him all that she wished he had.
Before he was ready to make the journey, one of the messengers asked that he might have a word with him, and to this Antoine lightheartedly consented.
‘Sire,’ said the man, ‘it has come to my ears that the King of Spain watches your actions. His spies are everywhere – even here in your own land. He knows your feelings for the new faith and he is therefore your sworn enemy. Be warned, my lord. Be cautious. Go to the court of France, as indeed you should, but not in the splendid fashion that you planned. Take only a few followers and go in secret, so that the spies of the King of Spain do not know that you have left Nérac.’
The name of Philip of Spain was one which could terrify many – Antoine not the least. Spain had already annexed part of Navarre which it was impossible to regain, and Antoine lived in terror that one day the Spaniard would decide that the whole territory of Navarre should be his.
It did not occur to Antoine to doubt the integrity of the messengers. Yet he knew that they had been sent from the court of France, and he might have asked himself if the Guises had, by chance, decided who should carry the message to him.
He said a reluctant good-bye to Jeanne and set out northwards for Paris.
CHAPTER II
Dressed in a plain black gown and covered from head to foot in a black veil, Catherine paced up and down in her apartments of the Louvre. The room was lighted by only two wax tapers. The walls were covered with heavy black hangings; the same black cloth covered her bed and her prie-dieu.
Her forty days and nights of mourning were over, and Catherine was beginning to realise more fully all that the death of her husband would mean to her; she found that she could look forward to the future with eagerness.
There would be no more humiliation, no futile attempts to gain Henry’s affections. She would never again watch him make love to his mistress. Henry, who had caused her so much bitterness and humiliation, was now powerless to hurt her. She loved him; she had desired him; his death was a great tragedy; yet freedom was now hers.
She looked back, but fleetingly, for it was not a habit of hers to look back, to those moments when she had watched her husband and his mistress together. She laughed suddenly, remembering that when people made love, wonderful as they might seem to one another, they could appear rather ridiculous to an unseen watcher; and when a woman of nearly sixty and a man of forty behave like young lovers, the unseen watcher – though jealous and tormented – might surely be forgiven a sly snigger. Had she then found a certain coarse amusement mingling with her jealous anguish? What did it matter? It was pointless to look back when there was so much to which she might look forward.
Francis was now King, and Francis was only sixteen years old; he was not very clever, and he was suffering from some poison of the blood which meant that he was continually breaking out in sores. He had, in his formal address to his subjects, asked them to obey his mother. On all state documents he wrote: ‘This being the good pleasure of my Lady-Mother, and I also approve of every opinion that she holdeth.’
Such deference was pleasing, but she had quickly realised that it was not so flattering as it seemed.
How unfortunate it was that Henry and Diane should have married Francis to the Scottish girl! That girl now dominated Catherine’s dreams, for Mary made Francis obey her in all things; and her uncles, the Guises, cunningly saw that she obeyed them.
How I dislike undutiful children! thought Catherine; and, for all his words, Francis was an undutiful son, since he did not obey his mother, but the Guises.
Catherine hated the Guises, and they terrified her. Very clearly the arrogant Duke Francis and the sly Cardinal of Lorraine had shown her that they were the masters. She had tried to placat
e them while wondering how she could destroy them. She had vowed friendship for them; she had insisted that Francis issue a statement commanding obedience to the Duke and the Cardinal; and as she had done so, she had wondered how she could betray them. Longingly she thought, as she had thought in the days when Diane had occupied her mind, of the poison closet at Blois; but the people whom she wished to remove were so important, so well guarded, that she had to bide her time. She could only use the contents of her closet, and the fine art which she had gradually mastered, on those who were less significant. At the moment she must go warily, for if she were plotting against the Guises, she could be sure they were watching her very closely, and one false move on her part would be disastrous to her.
She had already, she saw now, made a mistake by too prompt action. She had brought about the disgrace of her old enemy, the Constable Montmorency, insisting that the young King take from him the seals of office, and, thinking to ingratiate herself with the Guises, had suggested that they be given to them. Francis told the Constable that, in view of his years, these offices were too great a strain on him, but that he should remain a member of the Privy Council. The Constable had retorted hotly: ‘Being old and half in my dotage, my counsel can be of little use to you.’ And in great rage he had retired to the château of Chantilly. Catherine realised that she had made a dangerous enemy and that the course the ex-Constable would probably take would be to ally himself with the Bourbons.
She could not make up her mind whether or not to make the Bourbons her friends at the expense of the Guises. She had chosen the Guises because Antoine de Bourbon had not been at court when she might have sounded him and thrown in her lot with him. She did not doubt that his prolonged absence might have been engineered by the Guises, but that did not endear him to her; she knew him for a weak and vacillating creature who could not make up his mind on such a simple thing as a journey to court. The Prince of Condé was gallant and attractive; she had always had a pleasant feeling for him; but she did not know enough of him to trust him as an ally in this dangerous game of politics which she was now about to play. Meanwhile, the Guises were at hand, and they seemed all-powerful; and through their niece, Mary of Scotland, they insisted that the young King should take their advice instead of that of his mother. And so, for the moment, Catherine had been forced to take the Guises as her allies.
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