She drew aside the heavy curtains and looked out on the gardens. The young people were down there, and as she stood watching them, she drew from the observation that delight which watching others, when they thought themselves unobserved, always gave her.
She frowned at those children of hers. There was Francis walking about the enclosed garden with his arm about his wife. Every now and then he would stop to kiss her passionately. He looked like a little old man from this distance. She laughed suddenly, reflecting that he was wearing himself out with the exertions of sport and being a husband. Well, when Francis had worn himself out there would be an end to the easy power of Messieurs the Duke and Cardinal. They would not find it so easy with young Charles. Or would they? But there should be no sly little wife to lure Charles from his mother. She would make sure that over Charles she would have complete domination.
Now there was Charles, sidling up to Mary, trying to take her hand, looking at her in that wild, passionate way of his – his heart in his eyes. Silly Charles! He was no doubt begging that he might be allowed to play his lute to her or read some poem he had written about her. Catherine must stop this folly of her second son; by the look of young Francis, it might be that he was not long for this world, and, if he were not, Charles would have other things to think about than pursuing Francis’s widow. Francis’s widow should never become Charles’s wife.
She must watch these children of hers, for they were very important. Now that her husband was dead, they were all-important. In them lay her future and all that she could hope for in this land of her adoption.
Margot caught her eye. Margot was sprawling on the grass, and on one side of her was the little Prince of Joinville, son of the Duke of Guise, and on the other the Marquis of Beaupréau, the son of the Prince of Roche-sur-Yon. Margot’s wayward eyes went from the dark head of Beaupréau to the fair one of young Guise; and there they rested with a most unchildlike longing. Margot was talking; Margot was always talking, except in her mother’s presence. She jumped up suddenly and danced on the grass, lifting the skirts of her dress too high for decorum, while the two Princes tried to catch her and dance with her.
Then into her apartment came her darling Henry, and with him was little Hercule. Hercule had lost his beauty since his attack of smallpox, for his skin was badly pitted; he would never again be known as ‘Pretty Hercule’. But Henry in contrast was growing more and more beautiful every day.
She could not repress a fond smile at the sight of him. He had decked himself out in the most brilliant colours; but these colours, though dazzlingly bright, mingled perfectly, for her Henry was an artist. In his ears were sapphire earrings and it was these that he had come to show her. He was nine years old now, and those wonderful dark eyes of his were pure Medici. How ordinary the others seemed in comparison with Henry! They had no subtlety. Francis was foolish; Charles was hysterical; Elisabeth and Claude had been quite obedient girls; Margot, nearly eight years old now, was wild and in constant need of restraint; Hercule without his beauty was a petulant little boy, but Henry, her darling, was perfect. She thought even now as she looked at him: Oh, why was this one not my first-born!
He had come to show her his new earrings. Were they not beautiful, and did she not think that sapphires suited him better than emeralds?
‘My darling,’ she said, ‘they are most becoming. But do you think little boys should wear earrings?’
He pouted. Hercule watched him in that astonishment which was apparent on all the children’s faces when they saw the behaviour of Henry towards the mother whom the rest of them feared.
‘But I like earrings, Maman; and if I like earrings I shall wear earrings.’
‘Of course you shall, my pet; and I will tell you that if the other gentlemen do not wear them, the more fools they, for they are most becoming.’
He embraced her. He would like a necklace of sapphires, he said, to match the earrings.
‘You are a vain creature,’ she told him. ‘And you have been perfuming yourself from my bottles, have you not?’
Henry was excited. ‘This perfume of yours is the best you have ever had, Maman. This smell of musk enchants me. Could Cosmo or René make some for me?’
Catherine said she would consider that, in a way which he took for consent. He began to dance round the room, not boisterously as Margot danced, but gracefully, and with the utmost charm. After that he wished to recite to her the latest poem he had composed; and when she heard it, it seemed to Catherine that it compared very favourably with the best of Ronsard.
Ah, she thought, my clever son, my handsome little Italian, why were you not my first-born?
She took him into her arms and kissed him. She told herself, as she had so many times before, that she would use all her power to advance this beloved son. She was as necessary to him as he was to her.
But he wanted now to escape from her, to go to his own apartment and write poetry; he wanted to look at his reflection in his new Venetian mirror and admire the fine garments and the earrings he was wearing.
She let him go, for he was petulant if detained; and when he had gone she felt a distaste for her other children, who were not like Henry.
She did not wish to keep Hercule with her, so she sent him into the gardens to tell his sister Marguerite to come to her at once. Hercule looked startled, for when Margot was not called by her pet name which Charles had given her, it usually meant that she was in disgrace.
‘And,’ went on Catherine, ‘you need not return with her. You may stay in the gardens.’
Hercule went out, and Margot lost no time in obeying her mother’s summons.
The little girl stood before Catherine; she seemed quite different from the gay little coquette of the gardens. She curtsied, and her great dark eyes betrayed her fear; Margot was always afraid when summoned to her mother’s presence.
She came forward to kiss her mother’s hand, but Catherine withheld the hand in displeasure.
‘I have been watching you,’ she said coldly, ‘and I have found your behaviour disgraceful. You roll on the grass like the lowest serving-girl, while you attempt, in your foolish way, to coquette first with Monsieur de Joinville and then with Monsieur Beaupréau.’ Catherine gave a sudden laugh which terrified Margot. Margot did not know why her mother frightened her. She did know that this was going to mean a beating, probably from her governess; but there had been many beatings, and Margot had a method of moving out of range of the rod; it was a technique of her own invention which she had taught the others. It was not the beating which frightened her; it was her mother. She was terrified of this woman’s displeasure. She had said that it was like displeasing God or the Devil. ‘I believe,’ Margot had said, ‘that she knows in her thoughts what we do; I believe that she sees us when she is miles away from us, and that she knows our thoughts. That is what frightens me.’
‘You are not only foolish,’ went on Margot’s mother, ‘you are wanton and wicked. I would not answer for your innocence. What a pleasant thing is this! Your father so recently dead, and you see fit to sport in the gardens with these two gentlemen.’
Margot began to cry at the mention of her father; she remembered suddenly so clearly the big, kindly man with the silvery hair and the understanding smile; she remembered him as a man she thought of first as father, then as King. She could not think how she could have forgotten him when she was trying to make Henry jealous of silly young Beaupréau. Perhaps it was because when she was with Henry of Guise she forgot everything but that boy.
‘You, a Princess of France … so to forget yourself! Go and tell one of the women to find your governess and send her to me.’
While she waited for the governess to arrive, Margot tried to tell herself that this was nothing; it would merely mean a beating; but Margot could not stop herself trembling.
‘Take the Princess away,’ said Catherine to the governess. ‘Give her a good beating and see that she remains in her room for the rest of the day.’
And M
argot, trembling still, went from her mother’s presence; but as soon as she was in the corridor with her governess, all her old spirit came back to her; her tears stopped suddenly and she looked slyly up at the poor woman to whom the beating of Margot was a greater ordeal than to Margot.
And in the apartment, with the rod in her hand, the governess tried in vain to catch the small, darting figure; there were not many strokes that found their target on the lively little body. Margot’s red tongue popped out now and then in derision, and when the governess was completely exhausted, Margot danced about the apartment, studying her budding beauty, wishing Henry of Guise was there to admire her.
Having despatched Margot, Catherine sent an attendant down to the garden to have Charles brought to her.
He came in trepidation, as Margot had done. He was nine and seemed moderately healthy; it was only after his hysterical fits came upon him and his eyes became bloodshot and there was foam on his lips that he seemed feeble.
‘Come here, my son,’ said Catherine.
‘You sent for me, Madame.’
‘I have been watching you in the gardens, Charles.’
Into his eyes there came that same haunted look which she had seen in Margot’s. He, like his sister, was terrified of the thought of his mother’s watching eyes.
‘What were you saying to Mary, Charles?’
‘I was asking if I might read some verses to her.’
‘Some verses … written by you to Mary?’
He flushed. ‘Yes, Madame.’
Catherine went on: ‘What do you think of your sister Mary? Come, tell me. And tell me the truth, Charles. You cannot hide the truth from me, my son.’
‘I think,’ said Charles, ‘that there never was a more beautiful Princess in the whole of the world.’
‘Go on. Go on.’
‘And I think my brother Francis is fortunate above all others because Mary is his wife.’
Catherine took his wrist and held it firmly. ‘That is treason,’ she said quietly. ‘Francis is your King.’
‘Treason!’ he cried, trying to start back. ‘Oh no. It is not treason.’
‘You cherish unholy thoughts about his wife.’ She kept her voice low as though that of which she spoke was too shocking to be spoken aloud.
‘Not unholy,’ cried Charles. ‘I merely wish that I might have been my father’s eldest son, and that I might stand in Francis’s place – not for the throne, but that Mary might be my wife.’
‘These are wicked, wanton thoughts, my son. These are treasonable thoughts.’
He wanted to contradict her, but her eyes were fixed on him and he found that he was speechless.
‘Do you know, my son, what happens to traitors? I will take you down to the dungeons one day and there I will show you what is done to traitors. They are tortured. You cannot understand torture, but perhaps, as you harbour traitorous thoughts against your brother, it would be a kindness to show you these things.’
Charles cried out in terror: ‘No; please do not. I could not … I could not look. I cannot bear to see such things.’
‘But it is as well that you should know, child, for even Princes may suffer torture if they are traitors to their kings.’
His lips were moving, and she saw the flecks of foam gathering upon them; his eyes were wide and staring, and she saw the pink veins beginning to show in the whites of them.
‘I will tell you what happens to traitors,’ she went on. ‘It should be part of your education. In the dark dungeons of the Conciergerie – you know the Conciergerie, my son – prisoners are kept. They scream in terror. They would faint, but they are not allowed to faint. They are brought round by means of herbs and vinegar. Some have their eyes put out; some lose their tongues or have their ears lopped off. Some suffer the water torture, others the Boot. Those who betray kings suffer more terribly than any others. Their flesh may be torn with red-hot pincers, and molten lead, pitch, wax, brimstone … such things are poured into the wounds …’
Charles began to scream: ‘No … no! I won’t go there. I won’t be tortured. I won’t … Maman … you will not let them take me … ?’
Catherine lifted the little boy in her arms. That was enough. Perhaps now he would not be so foolish. Perhaps he would think of the torture chambers every time Mary Stuart flashed those bright eyes of hers his way.
‘Charles, Charles, my dearest son. My dear, dear boy, your mother is here to protect you. She would let no harm come to you. You are her Prince, her son. You know that.’
He buried his head against her. ‘Yes, Maman. Yes, Maman.’
His hand curled round the stuff of her sleeve as a baby’s curls, tightly, for protection.
‘There, my little one,’ she soothed. ‘Nothing shall happen to you, for you are my little Prince, and I shall be proud of you. You would never be a traitor to your brother, would you? You would never be so wicked as to desire another man’s wife – and he your own brother!’
‘No, Maman, no!’ He was shivering now. She had averted the fit. That was the way she preferred to do it. It was not pleasant to see him lose his reason.
She soothed him; she laid her cool hand on his forehead; she made him lie on her bed, and she sat beside it holding his hand.
‘Have no fear, my son,’ she said. ‘Do what your mother tells you, and she will see that no harm comes to you.’
‘Yes, Maman; I will.’
‘Always remember that, Charles.’
He nodded while Catherine wiped the beads of sweat off his forehead. She sat beside him until he was calm.
She was thinking what a difficult task lay before her. She must dupe the arrogant Guises and the vacillating Bourbons; but she must not neglect to guide her children’s footsteps in the way they must go. She could not guess which task would be the more arduous – the fooling of the rival houses or the controlling of her Valois brood.
* * *
Francis was preparing for a day’s hunting. He was feeling wretchedly ill, but he was happy. He enjoyed hunting when Mary was to be of the party, for whenever Mary was with him he was happy. He never tired of looking at her, of telling her how beautiful she was; and that made them both very happy.
He wished he could escape from his mother and the Cardinal and be alone with Mary all the time. He wished that his father – his dearly beloved father – was alive. He would like to kill the man who had killed his father. He, Francis, did not want to be King; he had been so much happier when he was Dauphin. Then there had been little to do but dance and play and be with Mary. Now that he was King, he was never free from the attentions of his mother and the Cardinal.
He was afraid of his mother; he was afraid of the Cardinal. They were both, he knew, so much cleverer than he would ever be. He had to obey them both, and as they did not always wish him to do the same thing, that was very difficult. The Cardinal sneered openly at him, saying those clever, cutting things which hurt more deeply than Francis would admit. He would have liked to have banished the Cardinal, but Mary called him her darling uncle; and the Cardinal was always thinking of things which would please Mary; he could not banish one of Mary’s uncles.
As for his mother, he would have liked to tell her to do everything she pleased, for he was sure she knew much more about governing France than he did. But always at his elbow was the Cardinal, with his thin, beautifully formed features and his cruel mouth letting fall those unkind words.
The Cardinal came in unceremoniously, even as he was dressing himself for the hunt, and with an imperious gesture dismissed the King’s attendants. Francis would have liked to protest, but if he did so he would stammer and stutter, and the Cardinal had already mocked stammerers and stutterers, so that Francis was almost afraid to speak in his presence.
‘We leave in half an hour, Sire,’ said the Cardinal.
Francis said: ‘I do not know if the Queen will be ready.’
‘The Queen must be ready,’ said the Cardinal testily.
‘There … there is plent
y of time,’ stammered Francis. ‘The Prince of Bourbon shall be met half an hour’s ride from the palace.’
‘Nay, Sire, we shall not meet the Bourbon, hunting to-day.’
‘Not … But … But he is on his way. I … I had heard that he was.’
The Cardinal of Lorraine studied his long white fingers. ‘Sire, the Bourbon rides this way. He comes with a humble following because he has some notion that he is important to the King of Spain and it is well that the spies of that monarch should not know of his movements. Therefore he rides to court like a poor gentleman.’
Francis did not laugh. He hated to hear people ridiculed, and Antoine de Bourbon was of higher rank than the Cardinal. He hated the sly, handsome face of the Cardinal; he hated the drawling voice.
‘Then we must meet him if he rides this way,’ he said.
‘Why so, Sire?’
‘Why? Because it is courteous. More than that, it is our custom. Do we not always meet those who come to visit us … out hunting … as if by accident?’
‘If the visitor is important, yes.’
‘But this is the Prince of Bourbon.’
‘Nevertheless, he must learn that he is of no account.’
‘I cannot do this, Monsieur le Cardinal. I will not be guilty of such ill manners towards my kinsman.’
The Cardinal sat smiling at his long white hands until Mary joined them. She was flushed and laughing; the young King was enchanted afresh by the beauty of his wife.
‘You are ready, my love?’ she asked. ‘Why do we wait?’
The Italian Woman Page 8
